Des Moines Area Community College Open SPACE @ DMACC
Expressions Student Work
2019 Expressions 2019 Rachel Lease
Ben Matthews
Timothy Stammeyer
Harlan Grant
Michele Cooley
See next page for additional authors
Follow this and additional works at: https://openspace.dmacc.edu/expressions
Recommended Citation Lease, Rachel; Matthews, Ben; Stammeyer, Timothy; Grant, Harlan; Cooley, Michele; Roubion, Jordan; Edgington, Cale; Griffin, Alexandra K.; and Johnson, Jalesha, "Expressions 2019" (2019). Expressions. 33. https://openspace.dmacc.edu/expressions/33
This Book is brought to you for free and open access by the Student Work at Open SPACE @ DMACC. It has been accepted for inclusion in Expressions by an authorized administrator of Open SPACE @ DMACC. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Authors Rachel Lease, Ben Matthews, Timothy Stammeyer, Harlan Grant, Michele Cooley, Jordan Roubion, Cale Edgington, Alexandra K. Griffin,nd a Jalesha Johnson
This book is available at Open SPACE @ DMACC: https://openspace.dmacc.edu/expressions/33
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Expressions Acknowledgments 2019
Expressions Acknowledgments 2019 999 Jim Stick, Academic Dean, Liberal Arts; Kari Hensen, Associate Dean, Science, Engineer- ing, Math and Social Sciences; Scott Ocken, VP Academic Affairs/Dean, Industry & Technol- ogy; Stan Jensen, Executive Vice President, College Operations; Rob Denson, President
College Supporters 999 Ankeny Campus' Student Activities Council, Erin Smith, Coordinator, Breck Dan- ner, Coordinator, Alumni Affairs; Drew Nelson, Provost of Boone Campus; Lisa Cap- paert, Administrative Assistant, DMACC Foundation; Tara K. Connolly, Execu- tive Director of DMACC Foundation, Veterans/Foundation Coordinator
Corporate Donors 999 West Des Moines State Bank
Individual Donors 999 Christine and Clark Bening; Neal and Kahn Hamilton; Keith and Diane Krell; Janet and Loran Parker; Dean and Diane Peyton; Curt Stahr; Anthony J. Stoik
DMACC Creative Writing Judges 999 Marc Dickinson, Lauren Rice, Ann McBee, and Krystal Cox
Creative Writing Contest Coordinator: 999 Marc Dickinson
Additional Academic Support 999 Monte Ballard, Chair, Graphic Design
Expressions Staff
Art Direction: Augusta Damman, Marwa Elkashif
Copy Editor: Amber Alli
Michael K. Bryant, Editor and Advisor
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2019 Expressions Winners
Overall Scholarship Winners 999
1st Place: Timothy Stammeyer ($1,000 scholarship)
2nd Place: Harlan Grant ($500 scholarship)
Poetry 999 1st Place: Jalesha Johnson ($100 Cash prize)
2nd Place: Rachel Lease ($50 Cash prize)
3rd Place: Michele Cooley ($25 Cash prize)
Prose (Fiction/Creative Non-fiction) 999 1st Place: Jordan Roubion ($100 Cash prize)
2nd Place: Ben Matthews ($50 Cash prize)
3rd Place: Cale Edgington ($25 Cash prize)
Honorable Mention 999 Alexandra K. Griffin
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“Things I have Heard About Boys” Rachel Lease 999
My father tells me he was a boy too once, That he knows what lies behind their hungry eyes. When I ask him what he did as a boy for him to warn me against them he murmurs something about chasing and skirts. I wonder what runaway laundry has to do with mens’ appetites.
My mother tells me that boys are not kind for kindnesses sake. That they expect to be able to trade it in later, like arcade tickets for a piece of you. I am cautious when accepting their kindness now, lest they ask for a lung.
My brother tells me I am the only girl he talks to, the rest have cooties, all girls his age do. I think it must be a new strain. When I was young only boys had it.
My lover tells me I am perfect. That he will stay with me for as long as I wish, I wonder if I should be careful what I wish for. After all, boys are known to chase windblown fabric, And steal bits of flesh, And infect girls.
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“The Bohemian” Ben Matthews 999
s Matt drove up the pavement, he noted only difference being the bedsheets were an ugly A that the name “Paradise Inn” did not accu- shade of olive green. Matt determined that despite rately describe the hotel that sat before him. The the lack of any form of originality, the predictability sign, portraying a small cartoony island with a single would work for the night. He set his bag in the corner palm tree behind the lettering, suggested a relaxing, of the room, tossed the phone book onto the desk, clean tropical getaway. Behind the marketing was and opened it up. Taking the phone in one hand, he an overwhelmingly average Midwestern roadside flipped through the pages with the other. hotel. Two levels, around 50 rooms, and a worn out tan color palette. The placement of the hotel was After a few minutes of searching, he found what rather brilliant, as a thick line of trees surrounded he was looking for. the establishment, leaving only the sign in clear view. Soon, he found himself talking to a Latino man Matt thought of it as an anglerfish luring it’s unsus- on the other side of the phone. pecting prey into its teeth with its warm glow. Except in this case it was luring unsuspecting travelers with “Mary Sue Escort Services, how may I help you a decent night’s sleep and instead giving them over- tonight?” priced rooms with stiff mattresses. “Uh, yes, I’m at the Paradise Inn on 35th. And I But who complained? A bed was a bed, and a room was wondering if... You know... was a room, and that’s all Matt needed. Fortunately, Someone could... Um... Come to my room? I’m the parking lot was mostly vacant, most likely due to sorry, I’ve never done this before.” Matt the fact that the hour was almost 1 in the morning on a Thursday. After Matt emptied the trunk of his stammered like a 12 year old asking if he could be car of his single bag of luggage, he paid for a single let into the adult section of the movie store. bed room and asked for a phone book. Tucking the worn book under his left arm, and carrying his duffel “Not a problem sir.” The Latino man didn’t seem bag in his other hand, he marched up to his room to mind. Or care. “Do you prefer a man or woman” on the second floor. He stopped at room 47 and “Um, woman.” unlocked the door. “Alright, and do you have any specific preferences He determined that friendships were only for your escort? Age, race, hair color? gonna slow him down, and he should com- mit 100% of his time to the perfection of his That sort of thing.” craft. The man’s voice practically seeped with forced enthusiasm like a greasy piece of pizza. If the hotel was predictable, the room itself was even more so, almost painfully predictable. It met “Um, I don’t really care... Redhead, I guess.” the standard requirements of a hotel room: Single bed, small desk, telephone, dresser, dim lamp sitting After a few more questions about directions and on nightstand, and a bathroom. The room matched about 20 more minutes of waiting, there was a knock the colors of the exterior and lobby perfectly, the at the door. When Matt looked through the peep- hole, sure enough, he saw a 25-year-old redhead. She
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put on a forced smile as he opened the door. She told “That’s it?” him her name was Nicki. “That’s it.” Matt noted that she didn’t look like a prosti- tute due to her clothes being rather normal; jeans, “Well, whatever gets ya off.” She smiled, more red-collared shirt, black shoes and a matching cheap genuinely this time, and opened to the first page. black leather purse. Matt led her inside and she ”Um, what’s INT mean?”
immediately sat down on the edge of the bed. “Oh right, that means “interior.” And EXT means “So, whatcha got in mind?” she asked, her tempt- “exterior.” Matt explained. Nicki nodded in under- ress impression just as forced as her smile. standing and began reading to herself. Matt stared at her for a moment, not necessarily expecting a “Uhh... So, it’s kind of weird... I mean, not as weird reaction this early, but enjoying the sight of someone as I’m sure you’ve experienced...” reading his work.
Matt avoided looking at her and immediately Nicki noticed him staring and looked at him. went to his bag. Turning his back towards her, he “Do you want me to read it out loud?” she asked. opened up his luggage and pulled out a large, sky blue binder. He turned and handed it to her, wordlessly “Oh, no. No! You can read it to yourself. Just, when commanding her to take it. She did so, and opened you’re done, tell me if you enjoyed it or not.” it up. The first page was blank except for the words in the middle of the page. Nicki, once again, silently took her orders and went on reading. Matt stood around for a moment, “The War at Home” Written by Matt Gunnar.” not wanting to stare again.
“What is this?” Her persona dropped quickly as “Do you have any other questions?” he asked. it had come. “No, I think I got it. How long is this though?” “It’s a screenplay.” Matt rubbed the back of his neck, scratching the itch that wasn’t there. “It’s only about 100 pages.”
“It’s kind of a script.” “Gotcha.” She registered as she flipped the page. After what felt like a decade of awkwardly pacing “Like... for a movie?” the room, Matt grabbed his coat.
“Yeah, exactly! For a movie!” But there was this one girl. A girl named “Well, what do you want me to do with it?” Liz. She wrote her phone number in his book, with a four simple words attached to the end: “I just want you to read it. And when you’re fin- “Call me this summer.” ished, just tell me what you think of it.” “I’m gonna go get some coffee. You want some?”he Matt smiled for the first time that night, letting asked, figuring it was the least he could do besides her know he was aware at how weird the whole situa- pay her. tion was, but at the same time saying he wasn’t weird.
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“I’m good, thank you,” she said with a smile, her have killed for. What they never told him in his cre- first genuine smile. ative writing classes was the other benefits that came with the job: sleepless nights, deep and unnecessary Matt gave a little smile back and stepped back research, and constant stress. But hey, he was writing into the hallway. stories. Maybe this one would actually get made into Across the street from the hotel was the brilliantly a movie, he told himself. named “Paradise Diner.” He wondered if the two The waitress finally came with his omelet, along happened to be connected, rival businesses, or just with a glass of chocolate milk. As he chowed down, a case of coincidental naming. he finally looked around at the other patrons. Other The interior reminded Matt of the beginning of than the two men sitting in the corner booth (one Pulp Fiction; he almost expected Amanda Plummer of whom looked like a hobo), Matt was completely and Tim Roth to be sitting in one of the booths. alone. He was reminded of the agreement he made with himself in middle school. He determined that Matt didn’t really need coffee, he just needed an friendships were only gonna slow him down, and he excuse to leave. Despite enjoying the sight so some- should commit 100% of his time to the perfection one reading his stories, he still found it uncomfort- of his craft. And he followed that rule all the way able to be in the same room as them. Especially through high school. whenever they were workshopping. The clock on the wall read 1:48 AM. He figured he’d head back He finished off his meal and stood up, wishing to around 2:30. Until then, he sat at one of the booths push the memories out of his unconscious. The clock and ordered an omelette. Early breakfast, he told now read 2:16. Deciding that was good enough time himself. as any, he paid and left. The meal was mediocre at best, but much like the hotel and the room, it would do for tonight. Roll with the punches, his dad used to say. He said it so much that Matt ended up using it as a catchphrase for one of his characters in his pre- Matt rubbed his eyes and looked at the reflection vious script; a tragicomedy about a toxic friendship of himself in the window. He hadn’t slept in what called “Water Under the Bridge.” He started his short felt like days, evident by the grey bags that hung trek back to his room, sticking his hands into the under his eyes like an outlaw hanging from the noose. pocket of his blue, baggy sweatshirt. He had to be in Chicago by Friday afternoon. He’d already driven what felt like a full 48 hours, and he Suddenly, a memory came back to him. A memory still had another five or six more of driving if he he hadn’t thought of in years. He wasn’t sure why wanted to be on time. His agent, Logan, wanted to it came back at just that moment, as he thought it meet him in person to discuss selling the script. Matt really didn’t relate to the situation at hand. wasn’t sure why now meet face to face and not the other times they discussed scripts, but Matt didn’t On the last day of eighth grade, Matt had handed question it to much. Logan knew best, he was told, his yearbook around to his fellow classmates so they and for the most part, he believed it. could sign it. Most of the kids wrote simple goodbyes without a whole lot of passion put into them. But He knew he shouldn’t complain. He was 21 years there was this one girl. A girl named Liz. She wrote old and he got paid to write scripts for Hollywood. her phone number in his book, with a four simple Something every kid in his old writing classes would words attached to the end: “Call me this summer.”
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Matt remembered how he felt the rest of the day. Matt wasn’t sure what to say next, so he stared at The strange mixture of both joy and terror. He never her for an uncomfortably long time. knew it was even possible for someone besides his parents to love him, let alone a girl in his class. He “Good?” Matt finally mustered the word out. was happy that she’d reached out to him, but the “That’s it?” only problem was he’d never been in love before. And “I mean It was well written, I guess.” Her voice he wasn’t sure if what he felt towards Liz was love. and tone didn’t offer much.
He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t ask his par- “Yeah, but Did you enjoy it?” ents for advise since they’d just gotten the divorce, so they were no help on love. He didn’t know if he “I gotta be honest with you man,” Nicki set the should call her. He didn’t know if he should thank binder on the bed. “I don’t watch movies that much. her for the note but explain that he didn’t like her And even if I did, this just isn’t my kind of movie.” that much. He didn’t know if he should mention “Well, at the very least, did you find anything that he didn’t know she even existed until that day. wrong with the story?” A slight sign of distress He didn’t know what to do. started to seep into his voice. “Where there any So he didn’t do any of it, and he never called her. plot holes or any choices that didn’t make any sense?” He never saw her over the summer, and he never saw her in high school, so he just assumed she’d moved “I know there’s something in here that ruins on. But as as he stood outside his room at 2:19 in the story and no one will tell me what it is!” the morning, he thought more about that idea. He had done the right thing by not calling her, he told “There weren’t any I could find.” Nicki shrugged. himself. It was better to not be loved than be loved Matt sat down at the edge of the bed, looking like improperly. her words were some sort of terrible news.
Matt pushed the thoughts away and opened the “Look, I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to door. Much to his surprise, he found Nicki exactly hear.” Her voice showed annoyance. where he’d left her. None of his bags appeared to be “If you wanted someone to tell you what’s wrong rummaged through, and she looked about 20 pages with your story, don’t you have an editor or some- away from finishing the script. She acknowledged thing like that?” his presence by nodding in his direction, and he murmured a soft greeting. He stayed near the door, “I do have an editor.” His voice was quieter than as he didn’t want to hover over her like before. Not before.“My whole family’s a bunch or writers. So knowing what to do with himself, he began bobbing my dad set me up with his editor and he already his knees up and down in a sort of dance but with no critiqued it. He said it was great. So then I took it rhythm or song to go along with it. She didn’t seem to my parent and they said it was great.” to notice and kept on reading. “Isn’t that a good thing?” Finally, she flipped to the last page. Quickly scroll- ing through it, she closed the binder, sat it on her “No, it’s not!” He raised his voice as he stood from lap, and looked up at him. the bed. “An editor should tell you what’s wrong with the writing, and I know that there’s something wrong “So, what’d ya think?” Matt asked, a hint of opti- with my story. The problem is that I can’t figure out mistic hope in his voice. what it is, and no one will tell me what it is! But I know why that is! Everyone I’ve asked to review it “It was good,” was all she said. knows me! They know I’m young and they wanna
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be supportive. So they don’t give me any bad reviews thinking it won’t discourage me! But they need to tell me what’s wrong with it! Every story has some sort of issue with it that keeps people from taking it seriously! Some decision or plot hole that ruins the whole movie! And I know there’s something in here that ruins the story and no one will tell me what it is! So that’s why I needed you to review it. A complete stranger who knows nothing about me to tell me what is wrong with me!!”
He stood for a moment in silence; bug eyed, breathing heavily and in need of some Tylenol. Nicki didn’t know what to say at first.
“I . . . I’m sorry I couldn’t do that for you.”
Matt hated himself even more so. He wanted to apologize. Apologize for wasting her time and ask- ing her to do what he should have known she wasn’t qualified to do. Instead, he avoided eye contact and said six words:
“I’d like you to leave now.”
Nicki grabbed her purse and Matt paid her for her time. She offered to do something to possibly help with his nerves, but he politely declined. Just as she was about to leave to room, she turned around and looked at him. He still avoided her eyes.
“You know, like I said, I don’t know anything about writing or movies, so you can take this with a grain of salt if you like. But, if everyone’s telling you that you’re a good writer...
Maybe you’re just a good writer.”
Matt said nothing. And with that she was gone.
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“Water Child” Timothy Stammeyer 999
They call me water child on the borderline by the riverside where tadpoles jive and swim around sounding
Maybe it’s instinct They swim born again sprouting like plants morphing with roots refusing to latch I attach and can’t decide to pity or praise or catch one to prove it
They call me shadow child on the borderline dressed in cotton guile the smile of the generation the veil of dictation voicing something
in a whisper like crystal saying “Life is worth the living.”
They call me bright light on the borderline in the night fading a speck on the horizon illuminated by moonlight stardust on the taillight
of an American car I shifted
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They call me death’s fight on the borderline ‘cause I won’t go down easy the bridge top’s getting breezy I start to hold my breath like a child going through a tunnel a funnel of tides turning
I jump a plop of tadpoles jiving
They call me call me me
With drums still ringing they’re singing “yo ho, heave ho Life is worth the living.”
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“American Ambrotype” Harlan Grant 999
first encountered Frasier McKinley in the the swinging doors I sat at the splintered bar to order I small, mud-caked town of Winslow, Arizona. a cool refreshment. To my right a wrinkled man in He had recently finished an especially gruesome torn denim breeches and faded cotton shirtsleeves three-month holiday in Mexico City and was on the lay face down on the counter. I considered prodding return trip home to his native Colorado. I myself was him to ascertain how much life, if any, remained in an aspiring writer wandering the desolate West in an his sunken frame but immediately thought better of attempt to find that miracle inspiration supposedly it. I sat for a while, sipping my drink and pondering haunting this part of the country. In the course of my situation. I had been in worse circumstances and my travels I had witnessed many things defined by in far more hostile locations throughout this sordid both auspicious beauty and terrible anguish yet my pilgrimage but my Eastern optimism was beginning stories did not come. I remained too much of an out- to wane. Slowly, I sank into a deep whiskey induced sider. Despite travelling the depths of the Inferno, depression. I viewed it all as if through a fogged glass, unable to grasp or understand the tormented shapes writhing As a boy in Rhode Island I was often told, “not on the other side. In Frasier McKinley I found my until we are at our lowest does the angel of mercy Virgil. A veteran of the American experience he had appear”. I would know nothing of that however, not just seen the worst this new land had to offer, he for God, in his wisdom, has yet to ever send one of his agents to guide me. Instead, the cynical spirits was an active participant in its horrors. of destiny and doom sent Frasier McKinley on the I had stumbled into town quite by accident. My back of a one-eyed, midnight black stallion. horse, a withered and wheezing product of multi- *** generational inbreeding, fell dead quite suddenly while I was riding through a barren patch of land at The sun had been snuffed for an hour, yet in the midday. I might have been crushed beneath the brute tavern I loyally remained. I was now certain the old had he been of healthy build. As it was, I instead man beside me had expired but I ignored the casu- crawled out from beneath him and made my way to alty, not wishing to become involved in the affairs the nearest settlement in hopes of acquiring a new of a local cadaver. Behind the bar hung a framed means of transport. photograph which had occupied the greater portion of my attention for much of the visit. The picture …for God, in his wisdom, has yet to ever was of thirteen very ordinary looking men in the send one of his agents to guide me. Instead, Western style. Each wore their own wide brimmed the cynical spirits of destiny and doom sent plains hat, drooping risibly towards their shoulders Frasier McKinley on the back of a one- as if newly wet. They all stared blankly forward with eyed, midnight black stallion. the same stoic stone faces which I had come to rec- ognize and accept as part of the Western landscape. Coming into Winslow late that same evening, I Six in front kneeled, one knee in the dust, as the found myself blanched and gasping from the des- remaining seven stood erect directly behind, some ert sun. The saloon was simple enough to find as it with hands upon the shoulders of the genuflecting appeared to be the only inhabited building in the as if to push them deeper into the dirt. scant village. Heaving my exhausted form through
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Overall, it was a miserable decoration and would slender man in a painfully blue shield-front. “That have likely gone unnoticed if not for its vivid pig- scrawny bastard in the back is Elmo Pines and I can mentation. The photographer must have been one tell you beyond a reasonable doubt that he never of the talented few who had adopted the relatively owned a shirt that wasn’t hog-mess brown.” new technique of hand coloring photographs. I had seen this done on a few occasions and once even wit- It was my turn to laugh now, certainly there was a nessed the process firsthand, but never had I beheld mistake. “That man is Elmo Pines? He’s one of the a photograph that so shamelessly crossed into the richest men in California. He must own a quarter realms of garish. In place of the typical blots of sepia of the territory and a third- a half! -of the cattle.” red and rusted brown, there were thirteen vibrant “Times change, do they not? The Elmo of yes- yellow faces nestled into bright blue and green shirt terday is not the Mr. Pines of today. Probably owns collars all lined with silvery buttons. Speckles of shirts in thirty different colors now. But the day sunset orange dotted the ground, making the street that photograph was taken he was just another half appear rich with California gold. The sky above was a suicidal prospector out for his share of river gold. shadowy purple, so thick it seemed likely to collapse He certainly found it- made his fortune almost over- under its own weight and crush the gaudy models. night. Did it all wearing brown, too.” The stranger The image was mesmerizing in both its pure inten- took another long pull from the decanter. I was sity and abysmal disregard for natural appearances. rather speechless and could only wait for my new I had been studying it for nearly two hours. acquaintance to continue.
The man was now conspicuously drunk, “Truth be told, I was in town the day that col- his emotionless grey eyes were frosted and or-blind picture taker immortalized those boys. Just unblinking. More than once I was certain coincidence, I wasn’t here to pose, there was some he would spill off of his stool. work to do and I was near good enough to do it.”
“Unusual piece of ornamentation, is it not?” The The man was now conspicuously drunk, his emo- voice came to me as a rifle shot beside my ear, so tionless grey eyes were frosted and unblinking. More unexpected was its presence. In my bewilderment than once I was certain he would spill off of his stool. I turned to see a beleaguered looking fellow locked As a writer of stories, I am always willing to listen inside a grey duster. He had appeared in silence like to a drunkard for they have a wonderful facility for an apparition and for how long he had been alongside both vivid honesty and self-serving embellishment. me I had no way to judge. Savoring two slow pulls He continued after a moment, apparently trying from a clay decanter he waited as I attempted to to recall where in his story he had left off. “My horse regain my bearings. had two eyes at that time and I was slightly well “Yes- yes, it is quite peculiar. I wouldn’t expect regarded. Not highly valued, but recognized for my working men in this area to dress in such dazzling accomplishments, few as they were. Anyhow, I rode apparel.” through town atop my duel eyed partner and saw this curious little crowd forming at the end of the road. He bellowed at this. A low, drawn out moan of a Well, I sally up and there’s Elmo and those other laugh. I was reminded suddenly of the imprisoned boys in their dung stained overalls trying to act like apes at the Providence Zoo, whose misshapen faces they were raised civil, posing in front of that picture so terrified me as a child. man. They were heading out to California the next morning and wanted something to commemorate “Well, that’s just it, is it not?” He lifted a sanded their last night in Winslow.” down finger towards the photograph, prodding at a
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The stranger began to laugh again, that same ugly And not to mention the hair, perfectly oiled. On its animal sound. “So, I shout out over the crowd, ‘The own, that famously coiled moustache of his sets him hell you doing, Elmo? Every damn person west of apart in appearance from ordinary men!” the Mississippi knows you was raised in a barn by a pack of hogs, ain’t no use putting on appearances “I am unsure what may have been communi- now.’ And he shouts back, ‘Frasier McKinley, if I cated to you under the impairment of drink, wanted your opinion-‘“ but I promise you, it does not mirror my convictions this morning.” His face was growing red with fondness for the memory but I had to stop him here, as my excite- I halted and blushed; my romanticized ideal of the ment suddenly rose exponentially. West had become evident, and I was on the verge “Frasier McKinley? You share a name with the of embarrassing myself. “I apologize, when I say it outlaw McKinley?” I had been hunting for outlaws in aloud the description does sound rather foolish.” my travels but had found that they were considerably There was a brief silence as we both contemplated this. “But I have seen the pictures.” rarer than my Eastern newspapers would have had me believe. “Is he a relation of yours?” The stranger grinned once more before he looked The man looked amused, “A very close relation, in me in the eye and spoke in an unexpectedly gentle and fatherly tone. “Friend, we were just discussing fact. We share a mother. Been together my whole life; the deceitfulness of pictures, were we not?” could say we’re shackled at the soul. We are indeed bound to our identities, are we not?” The rejoinder. It was then I realized that I had I understood now his meaning. “You claim to be made official acquaintance with the Outlaw Frasier The Frasier McKinley?” McKinley.
“I do,” he said this with a cold seriousness as if it *** was frequently asked and he tired of its repetition. We rode out early the next morning after a short “But you look nothing like him.” I examined the and dreamless night. I can claim no talent for liquor, fleshy, bland face hanging loosely from this man’s as such my mind and body were swimming from the skull. His head was virtually hairless and one temple previous evening’s indulgences. I purchased a new so badly scarred the eyebrow was nearly gone, leaving mount at the local stables for a bad price. The crea- a smooth patch of flesh from ear to nose. The great ture was strong of back but quite weak in personality grey coat he wore was punctured in several places and our relationship suffered for it. Nevertheless, and the buttons clasping it loosely together were all he was clearly well raised and followed my instruc- diverse sizes and shapes. He looked as all nobodies tions without difficulty. I returned to the saloon and look- undistinguished, trodden upon. Not at all like found McKinley preparing his own stallion. McKin- the man I envisioned, who was quick in both hand ley’s horse may have been the only thing about the and devastating rejoinder. man which lived up to his legend. It was one of the largest brutes I had ever encountered and its deep “You’ve met him before?” black body seemed to swallow and digest the light around it. I suspected the monster’s very presence “No, of course not.” My frustrations swelled. “But could extinguish the spark and ardor of the hot- I’ve seen the portraits, the- the wanted posters or test flame, leaving only the vacant recollection of however they are referred to. He is depicted as rogu- warmth. There was also the unsettling matter of the ish yet refined, dressed all in black but for a red jewel eye. The left orb had been removed, a hollow cavity which sits imbedded in the center of his Stetson.
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being what remained. Yet, it was with this pit that and saga I am after. Please understand, this could be the beast always seemed to gaze upon me. If I took a great opportunity for us both!” I was near despera- a step that boundless crater would follow, tracing tion- I could stand no more failures and if McKinley my pursuits, citing my actions. He was a disturbing left me in Winslow I would return home with noth- and formidable animal. ing but leathered skin to show for my Western labors.
Approaching at a gallop I greeted the pair, “Good “I don’t really care what you do, but I doubt you morning, Mr. McKinley, I expect you slept soundly. will receive what you are expecting. It is rare anyone I’ve found a mount so when you are ready to ride I does.” He quickened the pace and I, with irrational will be close behind.” passion, matched his speed.
McKinley turned and gazed up at me. He seemed *** quite a different man in the sober light of the morn- ing. Big and straight, his smile replaced with a deep We rode for several days over harsh and unat- gash. He filled the duster better, looking less like a tractive ground. In this time, I learned very little prisoner inside its matted lining. The fellow squinted about my companion except that he possessed a at me, as if trying to read a fine print. dramatically capricious memory and a generally inconsistent character. He would often impress me “You’re the Eastern man,” he stated plainly before with a detailed account of an occurrence from his turning back to his horse. past and then later change so many particulars that it became an entirely dissimilar tale. He did this “Yes, we- we spoke for much of the night, agreeing once when I inquired about his father and mother. that I would ride with you on your way home to Col- In the light of day, he admitted to never knowing orado. That I would transcribe your history and…” I his father but claimed his mother was a kind and paused, McKinley was not listening, instead gazing gentle woman who gave him up when she joined a past me, eyeing a man on the edge of the rode, “… convent in southern Texas. She died of tuberculosis and adventures. Surely, you remember.” a few years later with his name on her lips. McKinley “I’m not going to Colorado,” he scaled his mon- spoke fondly of her and I even perceived a single ster and began to trot away. My confusion reached tear hanging loosely from his eye when the story its peak as I hurried after them. was done. Later that night, as we enjoyed a flask of brandy, the story changed drastically. His father was “But we had an arrangement,” I chided, “we dis- now a merciless drunk who taught him how to kill cussed this for hours. You seemed quite content men and despise women. His mother, as far as I could with the idea.” understand, was a toothless vegetable farmer from Central Mexico and had never loved him. “Because I robbed you, you fool. I was still All the days and nights were spent this way as we the Judas you thought I was but not for rode to Utah. I pieced McKinley’s history together blinding your damned horse.” as best I could, mostly ignoring everything he told “I am unsure what may have been communicated me while drunk and much of what he said while to you under the impairment of drink, but I promise sober. This method allowed my creative sensibilities you, it does not mirror my convictions this morning. to construct a more palatable version of the man, I am not going to Colorado, not now. I have business the version I had grown up believing in. In truth, near Salt Lake.” much of what I ended up transcribing were just rein- forced versions of the stories I had heard before. “Then I will accompany you to Salt Lake. The For instance, I reworked the tale of his celebrated destination doesn’t really matter, it is only your time
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time in Acapulco (when he pulled a sick priest from in exchange for these moments of awesome beauty. the burning hulk of a basilica) by adding a singed Peeling a strip of crisp skin from my arm, I very hound to the list of the grateful saved. It was my much doubted I ever could. We rode to the cottage. own minor alteration to the already grandiose folk- tale. I stubbornly maintained the conviction that I McKinley dismounted his horse in a swift motion, already knew the real McKinley and this remaining barely giving the brute time to stop. I followed at fragment of him was only camouflaging his former a much more cautious pace, bringing my steed to a glory beneath a thick layer of modesty and alcohol. full halt before climbing down. The outlaw’s sudden It seemed intentional, for when drunk his every silence and sullenness confused me. Delgado was statement became a question always punctuated famously the most consistent partner of McKinley’s with “is it not?” as if even the blandest assertion had throughout their notorious careers. I expected this suddenly come under doubt. to be a joyous reunion between friends, but it rather felt like a dark funeral march. He stopped twenty There was only one thing I knew for certain; our feet from the hovel’s door. destination. McKinley had been traveling across much of the southern United States on a reunion “Delgado.” McKinley did not yell the name but his tour with his old colleagues. The outlaw explained voice had an unmistakable authority to it. I stood his intention to see his friends one last time before in place and waited. Several seconds later a thick settling down on a farm in the North. His journey, bearded face leaned out the door and gazed at us. thus far, had taken him into Georgia to drink with It was a poor face, a face the owner must have given Malcolm “Dead Eye” Valentine, through Arkansas up on long ago. It disappeared back inside, replaced to see the giant Caleb French, then across Texas to by a hand shepherding us in. track down the Bellwether Brothers and beat them Stepping inside I ducked to avoid the low rafters. both at cards. Most recently he had gone all the way The abode was bare, with only a burning stove and to Mexico City to see the young Ethan Lucas who, two cane chairs set before a thick table. An oil lamp according to the myth, was like a son to him. flickered from the center of the tabletop, turning Now, for the final meeting at the residence of Ezra us into silhouettes. Delgado was sitting on the far Delgado. I was immensely excited for this particular end of the table when we entered. McKinley, taking reunion. Delgado had been McKinley’s most stalwart the chair opposite our host, left me standing in the corner, nestled against the hot stove. I sniffed the companion for years. He was widely renowned for air and looked inside the oven. A single tortilla was both his swift draw and striking aquiline features. McKinley grinned wide when he told me about our slowly burning, one edge already blackened and fall- final destination and it gave me some hope that I ing away. There was a long silence as the men stared was not wrong about the outlaw. This affectionate at one another. I was becoming increasingly nervous expedition was more in line with the man I had and attempted to introduce myself. Delgado ignored always believed Frasier McKinley to be and I was me entirely and I quickly comprehended that I was proud to follow along on that journey. to remain mute.
*** “I wanted to see you, Ezra.”
We reached the home of Ezra Delgado near dinner “We haven’t spoken for a long time, Frasier.” Del- time. The malevolent sun was giving up its cruelty, gado’s voice was deep; it contained a vastness. forming instead a magnificent band of light across “No, but I’ve been seeing some of the boys lately. the horizon. I wondered, momentarily, if it was pos- Sort of private reunions, one on one. Have you heard sible to forgive that blistering star’s daily hostilities anything about that?”
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Delgado swallowed, “I heard Valentine’s dead. “Your horse? What the hell did I ever do to your Stabbed in Arkansas, I think.” horse?”
“Hung, in Georgia. Caleb was stabbed in Arkansas. McKinley’s face grew swiftly red with rage, culmi- Clyde and Jasper Bellwether drown in Texas, two nating in his flat palm striking against the wooden towns over from each other, in fact.” table.
I held my breath as a cold understanding crept So, you remain cold and monochrome while from my spine to the core of my mind. My forebod- the world begins to burn. Then you pay to ings were correct, but this was only the latest stop have your color added later. on the death procession. It had been touring for a long time and I was here to bear witness to the last “You bastard! You shot his damn eye out in interment. I made a great error in neglecting to ask Sonora!” McKinley looked like vengeance personi- the most prudent questions of Frasier McKinley. I fied but Delgado only appeared baffled. wished to know about his past but I was foolishly unfazed by where the journey was ending. “You came all the way here to kill me because you think I shot that demon in the eye? Frasier, “A lot of bad luck going around. I never knew much that night in Sonora you got so drunk on some local fortune myself.” Delgado was noticeably shaken but poison that you ran the both of you full speed into refused to look away from his inimical guest. a damned cactus. Bellwether told me later that you woke up on the ground the next morning bawling, “Luck, fate, the almighty all seeing eye in the sky. saying you had been stricken and betrayed. You ran They’ve got nothing to do with this, Ezra. We bring around town shooting windows and shouting Judas about our own ends, set our own path and choose to for a full day. The Mexican government nearly sent follow it knowing damn well where it ends. Then we in cavalry riders just to shut you up.” act surprised and penitent when we get there and perceive that we were right all along. We are not There was a brief and infinitely awkward pause. dragged into Hell, we are beckoned and tempted before happily crossing over that threshold.” “If you didn’t shoot my horse then why did I wake up to find you ridden out of town without so much “And what did those boys do to bring them to as an explanation?” the precipice of Perdition, Frasier? After all these years disbanded, what ancient slights could not go Again, Delgado laughed. “Because I robbed you, unpunished?” you fool. I was still the Judas you thought I was but not for blinding your damned horse. You drank your- “They had their dues to pay, Ezra. You remember self beyond comprehension for the thousandth time how little those boys could be trusted, they were and I had finally tired of it. So, I took your earnings thieves by birth not by occupation, not a spoonful and left for New Mexico. There was no greater con- of loyalty between them.” spiracy, no other purpose. I had grown exhausted Delgado chuckled. His laugh was rich, organic and of your company and felt a petty slight would be an appropriate good-bye.” slow. It seemed unnatural in this crumbling hole. By now my hand had been repeatedly burned by “I suppose you’re right, Frasier. But what about me? Why do I die tonight?” the oven’s radiating heat, though I scarcely noted the pain. I felt as a specter in the shadows, cursed to “My horse.” There was a stillness in the room as watch the unfolding of human tragedy yet entirely Delgado contemplated what this could mean. incapable of averting it. I knew all was a loss when
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McKinley pushed out his chair, knocking it to the had the chance to draw. He mounted his monster and ground. In a swift motion befitting his experience turned to me slowly, not with anger or hatred. There he unholstered his weapon aiming it squarely at was a sadness and sudden humanity to his features. Delgado. “I am the Outlaw McKinley. The persona “You did not rob me, Ezra! That was Ethan Lucas impressed in your mind is an American caricature. who took my money, I’ve suspected it for years. I An age damaged ambrotype which you are viewing tracked him to Mexico City three weeks ago and backwards through distorted glass. There is some blew his heart from his chest. He’s dead, same as of that man’s myth left torn inside my framework, the others.” though it is fouler in truth than in fantasy.” The man began to ride away. Delgado’s shock and anguish came to its crowning as sluggish tears began to crawl down his cheeks. I raised my gun to his back. I do not know what “You killed Lucas? We knew that boy since he was possessed me to challenge this charlatan further thirteen years old, Frasier.” Another flash of pain but a precipitous rage lifted inside me. It was as if a crossed our host’s face. “He had ridden back to El simple truth of the world which I had always taken Paso three weeks before we even made it to Sonora, for granted were suddenly shattered before me, my his ma had died. He wasn’t there when I robbed you.” feet left to bleed on its cracked remains.
“That’s- no. I remember it, you all started to turn “This isn’t how it is supposed to be!” I shouted, against me in Sonora. I had to take action, debts crazed and confused. “The stories about you, I can’t to…” his voice trailed off as his words degenerated let them all be lies. You aren’t allowed to be some into meaningless pangs of anguished bewilderment. self-serving spirit of vengeance! What has happed to the true McKinley? The outlaw-hero, the- the “No, Frasier. You had been broken for a long time. archetype?” You jailed yourself with drink and made yourself dis- trustful of your own surroundings. The world around My mind was emulsifying itself in the flames of you warped and so you contorted yourself to fit its self-delusion. I was incapable of so quickly releasing strange appeal. We were your friends.” my many years’ worth of predisposed expectations. There was meant to be honor in this new land. It “You were snakes. Every one.” was the promise of the West to live up to impossible A moment later it was over. Delgado reached for a ideals. The noble savage, the handsome desperado, revolver beneath the table; he did not have the time miles of vast unclaimed acreages and rivers thick to raise it. A hole appeared in his throat, bubbling with gold. That is not where I found myself. So, and flowing. He managed to stand for a moment, on what land did I now tread? In what ring of Hell a sad sound warbled out of his darkened lips but was my body boiling? My conductor turned back to its meaning was lost. Ezra Delgado fell forward, me, perhaps to kill me, perhaps to only prolong the toppling the table. McKinley lowered his colt and death. A voice like blades scraping. walked through the open doorway. “The truth is what propels us to the lie. The awe- *** some must match in scenery the grotesque, mingle and become its equal. This is where the legends live. “You’re not Frasier McKinley,” hands shaking like Between the truth and the fable. In a beggar’s coat a man afflicted I stumbled back to the outer shadow atop the Devil’s steed. People like me built this new of twilight. My fingers brushed against the holstered world by that concept and people like you will learn weapon hanging at my side, I knew if there was any to evolve by its principle. You insist on putting the reason to use it then my life would be lost before I Devil in your heroes, but only enough to keep them
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palatable. People can’t stand for it when we grow beyond their meek ideals. You stand in awe at the sunrise then shelter yourselves from the noonday heat. So, you remain cold and monochrome while the world begins to burn. Then you pay to have your color added later.”
He gave two swift kicks into the wiry ribs of his brute and quickly disappeared into the moonless night.
***
-Epilogue-
I came home to Rhode Island shortly after the episode in Salt Lake. Mind and body both exhausted and, despite my relative youth, the hairs of my head turned to an ashen grey. Memories of the Outlaw often crept stealthily into my conscious mind, lin- gering among the blacker things. I spoke little of my journeys in the West and refused to publicly publish any account of my time with McKinley. But now, with my youth behind me, it seems ugly yet imperative to excavate the dead. This nation has reached the end of its extension. We’ve no further earth to survey so instead we sit and think on our- selves. Having touched the shores of my own inner oceans, I look back on the ragged path I’ve made and try to remember where I began, questioning if I have the will to return there. Frasier McKinley remains an impossible injury to overcome, for he was the product of a grand and prosaic delirium. A hallucination, which I fear endures, in the unsteady foundation of the world he shaped.
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“Purple Hysteria” Michele Cooley 999
I heard your voice – you were giving your best. You took the stage, the light swung to you, watching you run across and hype up the masses. It couldn’t be a lie the passion you portrayed. I felt as though you had wings to soar amidst your adoring fans, my idol. And when you sang, my thoughts turned to purple.
The cheeky wink, broken English, you said, “I purple you.” Teary eyes coupled with rapid heartbeats, you are the best when you croon. With fire on the stage, it’s hard not to idol -ize you. You jump, slither, slide, pop and lock, run to your place and jump to the center of the stage. Wings appear on the giant screens behind. Your excitement can’t be a lie.
You appear with a blindfold and lay on the stage. Backup dancers swathed in purple, puffy shirts pull you to standing. Jacket gives the appearance of sparkling wings as you spin, jump, run, making the performance prime. The last note of the song is over, and you run backstage for the costume change. I hear the opening notes of Idol.
Brightly colored suits, rocking moves, and the declaration, can’t call me idol. Aegyo moves juxtaposed with cocky swagger, showing those comments are a lie Because the bitter haters just run their mouths. Talking crap until their faces turn purple. Defiance with the words, “Can’t stop me loving myself.” Performing your best is all you can do. You announce that ARMY gives you the ability to soar.
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Your Hyungs give you wings on your journey to becoming a worldwide pop idol. The spotlight shines and you promise that we receive the best of you. Your performance is true and denies any falsehood. The lights go out leaving glowing orbs in the audience. The purple confetti flitters down. Another costume change forces you to dash.
A rap begins, and the lights hit the middle of the stage. Un-yeong to your position to leap above the others. Whip over the group like a wing -ed crane. The air freezes around you with a blue and red bent. Seemingly weightless, as though you inhibit air movement, god-like. Landing at the top of the stage with a defiant stomp, an arrow true. Never-ending joy, the performance meets perfection.
With your goodbyes, people run to the exits; fervently singing our beloved’s praises.
Elation feels like flying, and no lie, most fantastic day, ever. I purple you too, you are the best at what you do.
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“Pieces” Jordan Roubion 999
e were young and bright and so flagrantly Our group broke free of the old medina, walk- W American bouncing through the snaggle- ing under the sandstone arch of the baab and into toothed, jarring streets of the bustling Moroccan the modern streets of Rabat. We were assaulted by sooq. French and Arabic tangled in a Darija dance as car horns and taxi drivers screaming obscenities. shopkeepers with jewel-toned scarves, handcrafted Cars and taxis scraped against one another regu- tajine earthenware pots, and woven baskets crawl- larly, elbowing each other aside and ignoring any ing with live snails hurled misshapen words that semblance of lanes or regulation. We shouted to we barely understood into our grinning, rapt faces. be heard as we navigated the fissured sidewalks to our fool’s errand. Loose gangs of sullen, dark-eyed The smell of freshly slaughtered meat and spices young men wearing suits or soccer jerseys watched filled our noses as we cavorted past mounds of sunset us as we passed. Hijabs and burqas gave our group red paprika, golden cumin and coriander, and the a wide, proprietary berth. entire severed head of a camel, its long eyelashes resting against the felt fur of its cheeks. Several of The hazy sun was setting, sinking behind the tow- my companions unsheathed their smartphones and ering buildings with a whimper, and the whisper of snapped pictures of the grotesque tableau. seaside night raised goosebumps on my arms. We found the shopfront. We were late. A churning mass The shopkeeper rushed over, getting much too of men was shoving and yelling at the harried liquor close to Ryan and with streams of Darija flowing salesmen. Ryan and his friend put their shoulders from his lips, casting confused glances at the photo- together and dove into the chaos. Several, tense min- graphic litany. He switched languages rapidly, trying utes later they returned triumphant with a bottle of pure French, German, and, hesitantly, Spanish. Our something familiar, a whiskey that will, at the sight pale skin and light hair marked us on those streets. of it, make me sick for the rest of my life. We avoided eye contact, reloaded our smartphones into their carefully guarded pockets and purses, and We bought Sprites from a mobile beverage cart left the polyglot behind. In that moment the crowds and mixed our cocktails, winking at each other. We were curious and exciting and subjected to my cam- took our forbidden fruit to the sea, where we gam- era. boled among the chilled waves and warm sand. Too long had we been studying Arabic verbs and tenses. There was a nervous energy humming among our group. It was Ryan’s birthday. His Moroccan host Out of breath, flushed with whiskey, the stinging brother, a roguish teenager corded with muscle from salt, and the promise of tomorrow, I flopped down working long hours on the fishing docks down by next to Ryan on the beach and lit a cigarette. He the dark and restless Atlantic, had informed him showed me pictures of his daughter holding “I miss of a rare event that was to take place in the more you, daddy” signs, all goofy kid smile and drowning modern downtown shop fronts that evening. A haram blue eyes. The screen made me squint in the near liquor sale. As soldiers in the United States Army on perfect darkness. a mission of vague intent in a foreign country, this was doubly and deliciously forbidden. “You’re cute when you do that,” he told me. I smiled. I thought of his wife. Dismissed that thought. Thought about her again.
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He paid attention. That’s what he was: all undi- “I went there once, when I was struggling with vided attention and intense temptation and foolish some stuff at home. Just do your best and don’t worry what-if daydream wishing, but I always thought of about anyone else but yourself,” he says. his daughter, and his wife. I don’t look him in the eye. I buried my half-smoked cigarette in the silky sand. He sighed and stood. I took his offered hand The ambulance stops and the medics escort me and didn’t protest when he pulled me too close to up floors and through a maze of hallways. I lose my him. He smelled like clove cigarettes. way, and I hope I don’t have to escape later. We arrive at a set of floor-to-ceiling doors and we are buzzed We walked up the beach, our group behind us. through security. I peer over my shoulder as the We walked quickly and one man for every woman, doors slam and thunk locked behind me. aware of the deepening shadows of the empty streets. Ryan always walked with me. He tried to hold my We talked of small things until we turned hand once we were out of sight of the others, but I into my host family’s alley. The stucco walls crossed my arms. We talked of small things until we loomed high. I had no idea what was coming. turned into my host family’s alley. The stucco walls I don’t think Ryan did, either. loomed high. I had no idea what was coming. I don’t think Ryan did, either. I am passed from nurse to nurse until my arms are piled with scrubs, therapeutic socks, a St. Antho- *** ny’s branded water bottle, and a little cup each of Years later. A hundred versions of myself, a failed sickly pink shampoo and conditioner from massive, marriage, a cross-country move, and a drinking prob- generic pump bottles. I already mourn how frizzy lem later and I am hunched over and squinting in and unkempt my hair will look without my favorite conditioner, but I might as well look the part. the bright light of an ambulance across from a dis- tracted medic. All the doors in the unit are cracked open, and I dread finding out what lies beyond the bars of light “Did you have to come to work because of me?” and in the dark rooms. One door opens a bit wider I ask. and I see a flash of bright eyes and hear a skittering He jumps at the sound of my rough voice and says, on the floor. I do not look at the other doors. “What? What do you mean?” The nurse walks me into an otherwise unoccupied “Did you have to leave home for this?” room. It smells stale and looks like an Army barracks room. There are two beds made up with scratchy He shakes his head emphatically, “Don’t worry wool blankets and a yellowed pillow each. There is about me. Focus on where you’re going You’re lucky nothing else. She tells me to strip. I blush when I they found you a bed after closing all those clinics realize she’s not going to leave the room. last year.” “Sorry, dear, just protocol.” I listen to the road sounds and watch his furrowed brow. I realize I know him. He has a daughter my age. I have to cuff the legs of the scrubs several times, or they puddle about my feet. They feel like pajamas. Shit.
The whole town will know about this tomorrow morning. Small Town, Iowa life.
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*** I didn’t answer him. I leaned into my stride.
Tears rushed over my hot cheeks as I scrubbed Left, right, left, right, left. my arms and hands, and brushed my teeth again and again in the rusted mirror of my host family’s The sergeant called the command for us to break bathroom using bottled water from the market out- off into pairs, and the protection of other soldiers side the medina. The faucet wasn’t safe in Morocco. peeled away from my sides. I felt exposed. Ryan stayed with me. I couldn’t get clean. I couldn’t remove the stains. “Please, tell me what I can do to make it up to The rest of Morocco passed by in a blur of smeared you,” he said. faces and shockingly bright colors. I gripped the hand of of my female friend when we waded through “You,” I started, and I fought to keep my voice crowds and cowered in my cot at night, wishing for from breaking, “You just left me there.” home. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, “I pan- When we did finally leave, there was no time to icked and ran.” catch our breath. We returned to our barracks rooms I forced my shoulders to relax to avoid cramps and at midnight, and laid out physical training clothes shook out my hands to keep them from clenching. for the next morning, the promise of a five mile run I had taught myself to do that by imagining I was hanging over our heads. carrying fragile eggs in my palms.
I guzzled a glass of water to fight dehydration and I ticked my pace up a notch, but Ryan was male fell into a nightmare-fueled sleep. I woke tangled and faster. He matched it easily. I hated him for that. and sweaty in my sheets, stumbling for my clothes. I worked so hard to maintain what came naturally to the males. The Army couldn’t do anything without fanfare, and so every morning we woke in the dark and got He had run out of things to say, and we ran to into ranks and columns and saluted the flag as the the sound of our thudding hearts and even breaths. first colors of sunrise peeked over the horizon. Then we were running. ***
My sleep is broken, cutting me with jagged pieces “And why would a young, pretty thing like of nightmare. you do something like that? . . .Was it be- cause of a man?” Grit under my fingernails as I scrabble at the dirty street. Slimy wrappers stick to the side of my face. I push My limbs felt slow and heavy as I fell into line and push, but am crushed and I can’t breathe can’t breathe with the other soldiers, our thumping feet creating CAN’T BREATHE. a steady rhythm. I settled into the pace I had taught myself to maintain for eleven miles or more, and I bolt up, brushing imagined dirt from my back. tried to go to a happy place in my head. Tears are in the corners of my eyes and I rub at them furiously. Then I focus. I come to the conclusion Ryan shoved his way through the ranks and fell that a screaming banshee is on the premises, and in next to me. He skip stepped to match my pace. much to my horror, is drawing closer to my room.
“How long are you going to be mad at me?” he “I just want a fucking cigarette, people! That’s it! asked under his straining breath. Let me go. I just need my fix, maaaan.”
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Hushed voices respond. A knot of people enter watch. I notice others watching me back. I note the room, flip on the lights, and I observe a woman them. In particular, a man in his forties, balding, who I will come to call Malevolent Mauve. portly, and with intense blue eyes. He gets filed away in a special threat category. Her plum-colored hair comes to her shoulders except where it is sticking straight up in the air like The old woman leans toward me. a student asking a question. Her eyes are blood- “What are you in for?” shot and rolling in their sockets. She alternately sags against the men and women holding her and I swallow a piece of waffle, hard, and say, “I’m, viciously convulses her body to break their hold. um, sick. I guess.” They, not very gently, toss her onto the other bed. I can’t blame them. She writhes and her jeans slip She says, “Aren’t we all, dear? Aren’t we all.” half way down her gratuitous ass. The man with the blue eyes speaks up from down “I’m not supposed to be here. The fucking cops the table, “Speak for yourself. I just needed a vaca- lied. Please, I don’t want to be here!” tion.”
A nurse notices me and says over Mauve’s moan- The old woman sticks out her hand for a shake. ing, “Sorry, love, go back to sleep. She’ll settle down I accept. soon.” To the man down the table she says, “We all know I can’t stop watching, though. A man comes in you’re a pervert, Adam. Don’t lie.” with a long needle, pinches Mauve’s arm, and injects. My threat level for Adam is confirmed. “Who the fuck are you?” Mauve says, “And why To me, she says, “I’m Sharon. And I’m here because do you look like fucking Gilligan?” I tried to do some business with the front end of a It’s minutes before her cussing and convulsions moving train. What happens here, stays here. We cease. She whimpers and cries. all respect that.”
As I’m settling down in my bed, facing the door- I’m taken aback at her honesty. And now I owe way and the threat of Mauve, just in case, she whis- her. I can’t afford to be rude. Not in a psych ward. pers, “You can’t trust them. Don’t trust them.” “I was going to swerve into oncoming traffic,” I I do not sleep again. lie, then add, “Maybe.”
The next morning I shuffle in my purple Crocs to Sharon looks thoughtful, “And why would a young, the sickly green and peeling common room where pretty thing like you do something like that?” everyone is eating breakfast around a circular table Then she narrows her eyes and asks, “Was it paired with mismatched chairs. There are about fif- because of a man?” teen people of varying ages. I quickly scan and sort the people into their respective threat categories. “You could say that, sure,” I say. I note the position of the nurses in the room. In the end, I choose to sit next to an old woman. She Sharon spits on the floor over her shoulder and is gray and ruddy and meaty, and eyes me over her says, “The dick ain’t worth it, dear.” thick glasses. I feel my face crack a small smile. A tray of food is placed in front of me by a nurse and I pick at fruit and waffles. Mostly, I listen and
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*** “Come on, guys, statistics say there are way more people affected by this stuff. Be honest,” said the The Army can’t resist long and convoluted acro- sergeant. nyms for things that are simple concepts. That is how I found myself sitting in a Sexual Harassment/Assault I raised my hand, and my platoon members gave Response and Prevention class in an auditorium full me sidelong looks and whispered behind hands. of rowdy soldiers who didn’t believe a single thing *** coming out of the orator’s mouth. I quickly cop to the normal routine of the psych “If you or your potential partner have had even a drop of alcohol, you are both no longer able to give ward. As a soldier you thrive on routine. First, break- consent,” said the speaker, a staff sergeant charged fast. Then, one by one, we filter through the glass with maintaining our level of training in the program. enclosed office to visit with the psychiatrist, on dis- play for all to see. Those not in their meeting are He was handsome, if short, and his face was very free to do whatever they please, except sleep. Most serious. of the people play games in small groups with miss- ing pieces and boards that are faded and rotting at “How else are we supposed to loosen them up?” the corners. I find a bookshelf in the hallway and called a soldier from the fourth row. sift through dog-eared westerns and biographies of His buddies high fived him. people I’ve never heard of. I find one fantasy novel and cling to it. I sit in a caved-in chair that smells “If you need alcohol to convince a girl to have sex like sweat in the corner of the room and fidget with with you, you’re doing it wrong,” called another voice the pages. from the back of the room. I jerk when someone’s face appears in front of The private craned his neck to see who had spo- me. It is the man with the intense eyes, Adam. I curl ken, and a first sergeant waved and winked at him. away from him in my chair. The private put his head down. His buddies high fived him . . . “If you need The speaker struggled to regain everyone’s atten- alcohol to convince a girl to have sex with tion as they cat-called and hooted. you, you’re doing it wrong,” called another I struggled to look straight ahead as Ryan’s eyes voice from the back of the room. bored into the back of my skull. He was seated in the row behind me and to the left. I could feel it. “So where are you from?” he asks, kneeling next The hairs on my neck stood at attention. to me.
“Let’s put it this way, then,” said the staff sergeant, Oh, good, a crazy person wants to know my “Based on what you’ve learned today, how many of address. you have been the victim or know a victim of sexual “Thirty minutes from here,” I say, feeling safe assault? Hm? Raise your hands.” behind the mask of a dozen small towns in the area.
I felt sweat trickle down my temple. My hands “Me, I’m from Carroll. My kids are here. You have shook. I looked down at them, angry at their kids?” betrayal, angry at my friend, angry at the men who surrounded me for being men. I brainstorm ways to extricate myself from the conversation. I feel my palms get slick. I don’t want I felt Ryan’s gaze grow more intense. to get the book sweaty.
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“No.” I say, “George Washington, Thomas Jefferson…?”
“Do you want kids?” He stops typing and waits for me to continue. I don’t know if Thomas Jefferson is right. “Maybe someday. Can you excuse me?” He shrugs, “Close enough.” The man grins, “I want more kids, actually.” Then he asks, “Have you witnessed or experienced I don’t respond, and my vision starts to blur while an event that caused you to fear for your life?” he looks me up and down. I stutter, “I guess so, yes. I mean, yes.” “I think you and me, we could do some great stuff together. Know what I’m saying? You single?” The doctor’s eyes flick toward me. I don’t meet them. He types something and asks me more ques- I mumble something unintelligible and curl fur- tions. I feel a heavier weight to these questions, and ther in on myself. He interprets this as a negative. I answer many of them with “yes”.
“We should get married sooner rather than later.” “Any history of sexual trauma?”
Finally, a nurse calls my name and I am saved. I I don’t answer. I’m thinking. dart around Adam and look into the face of an angel. She’s perky and blonde, and wearing pink scrubs. I He does not hit me. I wish he had. I wish he had knocked like her immediately. Shaking, I follow her into the me out. He finds a terrible rhythm. I wish I could leave glass room and sit ungracefully in a wooden chair. A my body, like in the stories. I would go home. I stare at woman with a twitching face is escorted out. the chipping blue paint on the wall and want to think of the rolling green Iowa cornfields, but I am stuck in this In a tone that suggests he’s repeating himself, moment. With him. Ryan. My friend. My battle buddy. he asks, “Are you reliving a trauma right Mired in enemy territory, I never saw the inside threat. now?” I realize the doctor is speaking.
A middle aged man with gray speckled hair is tak- “What?” ing notes across from me. He murmurs for me to “wait just a moment” while he finishes. In a tone that suggests he’s repeating himself he asks, “Are you reliving a trauma right now?” He doesn’t smile when he looks up. I sit on my hands to keep them from trembling. I nod and he whispers in the nurse’s ear. She leaves and returns with a tiny paper cup. Inside it there is a Introductions are made, pleasantries exchanged. yellow pill the size of a coffee bean. I take it without His name is Dr. Westfall. Then we launch into an asking questions. interrogation. I expect questions like, “Do you feel like hurting yourself or others?” and the, “Are you I answer a dozen more questions, but they slide in any physical pain at this time?”. I do not expect, across my consciousness as if they are greased. I “Who were our first three presidents?”. know my voice is flat and emotionless. I say ‘yes’ a lot.
“Sorry, what?” I ask, blinking. A banging on the glass next to my seat startles me out of my funk. It is the young woman with the Dr. Westfall glances up from his laptop, and says, twitching face. Her long, dark hair curtains most of “It’s just to test your mental state.” her delicate features. I hate tests.
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“Are you going to take my kids away, you old fuck?” She was beautiful, with tumbling blonde hair and pink heart-shaped lips. She stuttered as she said, She walks away before anyone in the room can “Well, yes, he does. Thank you. He has said the most react, winding up and pitching an imaginary baseball wonderful things about you.” at the doctor’s head. He sighs and stands. I refused to look at him, and I knew my eyes were “I’m starting you on a regimen of medication. I’ll dark and sharp like the end of the excavation tools meet with you tomorrow to see how it works for you. we were issued when we processed into base. The nurses will explain the details.” With that, I am ushered into the common room. It was ironic, to be stationed at a place called Fort Bliss, and my laugh was high pitched and laced with *** mania. I snatched my hand from her and stalked into The Family Readiness Group, a haphazard orga- the safety of the Chemicals cage. nization consisting of Army wives that more often *** than not skimmed the group’s funds for themselves, threw a party for Ryan’s promotion to sergeant. They Outside the quiet of the glass room, Malevolent decorated with cheap Fourth of July decorations and Mauve is pounding on the wooden door of the nurse’s we all stood at attention as he was ceremoniously station. pinned with his new rank. Our supervisor punched the barbed rank into his chest, as was tradition, and “I know you can hear me. I said, get me my god- Ryan didn’t flinch. I wish he had. damn nicotine patch,” she snarls.
I burned with jealousy. Despite the extra projects I have already been admonished once today for which I had assumed responsibility and my super- for hiding in my room and not joining the visor’s continued reassurances that my time would group, so I ask if I can do puzzles. The nurse come, I combed the published promotion list and unlocks the cabinet and I ask her why they had yet to see my name. keep it locked. “So patients can’t hurt them- selves,” she says. As for Ryan, he had taken to going out for long lunches with the other sergeants, skipping morning I am relieved that her pants are back on. Her formation, and delegating his duties to lower enlisted bedazzled-butt jeans squeeze her doughy waist out soldiers he had once called friends. of the top and bunch up around her Ugg boots.
Formation broke and we spilled over to the plas- The nurse rolls her eyes and explains that Mauve tic table laden with potluck casseroles and bags of must wait two more hours. Doritos. I had planned to make a plate and retreat into the Chemical equipment room to look over the Mauve is about to combat this when she sees me. gas mask spreadsheets, but Ryan grabbed me by the I flinch and move to scamper away, but she pins me arm. I nearly dropped my plate. with her piercing eyes.
“Hey, I want you to meet my wife and daughter,” “How old are you, girl?” she asks. he said. “Uh, twenty five.” I shook his wife’s hand and said, “Congratulations Mauve, with a voice stuck on volume ten, laughs on such a wonderful husband. I’m sure he makes and slaps her leg. you very happy.”
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“You look like you could be sixteen years old! What ish each puzzle I pause to admire the photo. I smile the hell are you doing here?” without realizing it. Then I crumble all the pieces back into the box and start again. I shrug and move to bound away like a frightened deer, but she blocks my path. Despite being engrossed in my puzzles, I do not fail to notice when Adam comes marching down the “Come on, what could a perfect little girl like you hallway during one of his many pacing walks in the do to belong here?” she asks. cramped halls, holding something small in his hand Heat flushes my cheeks and I scowl. with a smug look on his face.
“I beat my boyfriend with a baseball bat and “Nurse! I have found a potential weapon!” smeared my naked body with his cranium blood.” A nurse scurries into the common room and holds Mauve’s eyes widen and she lets me pass without her hand out. She looks confused, then narrows her comment. eyes at Adam.
I have already been admonished once today for “What? It’s a bobby pin. One of us could have hiding in my room and not joining the group, so I choked.” ask if I can do puzzles. The nurse unlocks the cabinet Before dinner, the pink-clad nurse approaches me and I ask her why they keep it locked. with a clipboard and asks me even more questions. I “So patients can’t hurt themselves,” she says. am happy to answer. I talk so fast that I trip over my words. It feels like the words are solid things behind I look at the puzzle box. It’s a picture of kittens my lips, crowding my teeth. I notice that the colors playing with yarn. I look back at her. in the room are too bright. I laugh too much and smile too wide. I tell her about my beloved puzzles. She smiles, gives me a cup of pills, and retreats back to the nurse station. We are allowed phone calls after dinner. They give us little black phones that we are not allowed When they tell me they have run out of pa- to take into our rooms. There are only two of them, per, I have a thick packet. I take my mate- and many of us. It has to be quick. rials to my room and research. I learn the *** shape of my enemy. I got married in Iowa the summer following that For the rest of the day, I am doing puzzles. At promotion party, standing under an arch dripping first my hands feel swollen and clumsy. They trem- with pink and white flowers, wearing a simple white ble. Then something clicks. Finding and rejecting, sheath dress and smiling until my face cramped. Our joining and grinning when I fit together the perfect friends said it could never last, not after moving so pieces. First the corners, then the border, then I quickly, but I was as sure as I could be about this fill in the rest. I grumble when pieces are missing. handsome, kind, southern man. Sharon watches me for a while. She says how smart I must be and asks which one I will do next, before He was from Alabama, and called me a yankee she becomes bored and wanders away. I do not get when he disagreed with me about politics, but he bored. The more puzzles I do, the more I want to made me laugh wildly in bed as we held each other at do the next one, and the next one. night and took away some of the edge of my night- mares. I only feel a little guilty making the nurse unlock the puzzle cabinet every thirty minutes. After I fin-
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It wasn’t until Christmas, three months later, that I learn that she didn’t graduate high school, that I knew something was wrong. He was drinking more the police accused her of threatening them, and that and more Jim Beam, and I would find him crying she had been in this same psych ward three times on the kitchen floor late at night. When I offered before. She tells me about her on again, off again comforting words, he snapped things like, “You could boyfriend, Mo, who likes to ride motorcycles and do never understand, you’re just a northerner.” his own tattoos. At first I am quiet and find excuses to walk away, but then I see the benefit to being on His words hurt, but I was optimistic. Having a her good side. Sharon was not on her good side. spouse in the Army was hard enough without also being a soldier yourself. I cut him some slack, and “Take the goddamn stick out of your ass, you used cried on the phone with my mother before he came up old bitch! The rest of us are trying to get fucking home. right, for god’s sake! Leave the young ones alone. They don’t need your poison,” Sharon snaps. One night, he didn’t come home. Worried, I excused my behavior and snooped on his social Finally, without warning, it is my turn in the glass media account. I found messages to a woman in room. his unit. “Based on our meeting the other day and how you When I confronted him, he said, “You didn’t give reacted to your medication, I have diagnosed you me a choice. We haven’t had sex in months. What with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of is wrong with you?” military sexual trauma.”
He deployed to Jordan a week later, with the My world stops spinning. woman in his unit. I spent a week packing his things carefully in boxes and put the boxes in the yard for I immediately review what I know about PTSD. I his best friend to pick up. I used most of our savings think of soldiers having seen action when overseas, to pay off my car, out of spite, then divided the rest holding dead buddies in their arms as they bleed between us and filed the divorce petition. out. I think of shots fired and the whistling scream of mortars raining on base. I had only ever experi- *** enced using Combat Application Tourniquets and Quikclot bandages in simulations. I shake my head. Despite what the doctor said, I do not see him again for a few days. I think there has been a sched- “Do you deny that you have this disorder?” asks uling issue. There are too few doctors to go around. the doctor. I sink into a routine, and find myself talking and laughing with the others. I join their games and joke I think my answer must be important. I want to with them. I feel like an earlier version of myself, go home. from sometime ago. I take my meds, which I begin “I’ve never seen action. I don’t understand.” referring to as my happy sprinkles, and wait for my turn to be displayed in the glass office. The doctor smiles condescendingly and explains that trauma looks different for everyone. I am still Every few hours Malevolent Mauve pitches a fit not convinced, but I so badly want a beer or six and and I risk bothering the nurses by asking for Advil. a cigarette and my own bed. I do not argue. She rants about everything from her lawyer “sucking ass” to the “crooked and corrupt cops”. She gives me “When can I go home?” I ask. a headache, but I notice when she’s in a good mood “Soon,” he says. she likes to approach me and strike up a conversation.
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I am crushed. He claimed to have found the of pepper spray gel. There had been an attempted answer. The cause of the depression and the para- abduction of a young woman on my usual route to noia and the anxiety. Why couldn’t I go home? my car, blamed on drunk, future frat boys out on a lark, but I refused to take any chances. I dared a But I nod and leave the room and my thoughts Chad or a Brock to come anywhere near me. swirl like a midwest twister. I know my enemy’s name. As I passed the street corner where the abduction would have taken place, my shoulders were jammed I go to the nurse station and request a printed up near my ears and my heart beat with dread in my list of famous people with my disorder. I scan the chest, but there were no looming threats in the night list and realize most of them are dead by suicide. I and I walked by uncaring shrubbery and stone walls. backtrack and ask for a list of living people. I ask for all the printable information concerning my new Then I turned the corner and two dark figures medications. I ask for a list of coping mechanisms. burst through the darkness, hands reaching for my The nurses comply without question, almost eagerly. neck. When they tell me they have run out of paper, I have a thick packet. I take my materials to my room and I screamed, twisted away, and depressed the mech- research. I learn the shape of my enemy. anism on my pepper spray gel and unleashed it upon the attacker’s face. He screamed. The other figure *** whipped off its hood and I was surprised to see a woman’s face, livid and spitting curses. When I drove off Fort Bliss and left the desert for the last time, I felt my body collapse in on itself in “What the fuck is wrong with you? What is that?” relief. My small Fiesta was packed to the gills, with she demanded, snatching the gel from my hands. precise efficiency, and I made the eighteen hour drive to my mother’s front door step in Iowa without The figure on the ground was clawing at his face stopping. She had a cold, open beer waiting for me and yelling indistinctly. The woman crouched on and the Saint Bernards licked the tears off my face. the ground and rubbed his back gently.
I spent the winter waiting for my divorce to final- “It’s alright, it’s alright. We’ll fix it, buddy,” she ize and looking for a steady job, but my military said over his wails. experience didn’t grant me any special treatment. By I was frozen. My mind was blank. Christmas, after I was unable to buy my family gifts or fill my pantry with anything other than ramen, “He has down syndrome, you bitch,” the woman I understood that I would have to start over in an said, and pulled out a cell phone. entry level job flipping burgers or selling gas. It was It didn’t take long for the police to arrive. I was a hard realization, but I was too far behind on rent inconsolable. Tears poured down my face, and snot to let my pride get in the way. leaked from my nose. I tried to explain, over and over Iowa was clinging to the last cold dregs of the again, to the officers. One stayed with me with a firm bitter, dark winter as I finished out a semester of hand on my shoulder while the others whispered in night classes at the local community college. I had conference. Then I was in the ambulance. just taken my final in a entrepreneurship course and was walking the ice slick, winding path to the parking lot on the other side of campus. My head was down against the wind, but my eyes were ever roving and my stinging fingers clutched my pink can
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*** I murmur to her that it will be alright, that she will be out soon, that she will find the courage to leave I am sitting in the sweaty chair, reading my thick Mo and quit smoking and get her GED. packet, when Adam approaches me. She steps away from me, wiping her eyes. “Have you thought about the wedding yet?” he asks. “Go get ‘em, kiddo.”
I place my bookmark between the pages and meet I nod and walk through the doors without look- his eyes. ing back.
“Fuck off,” I say. ***
His face darkens and he takes a step toward me, A few weeks later. Two different versions of myself “Don’t talk to me like that.” later. I am standing in the liquor aisle holding a case of craft beer in one hand and a twelve pack of Coke in Without thinking, I am on my feet, forcing him the other. I can’t decide which one will go in the cart. to back up. Prickly heat sizzles along my skin, and my vision blurs. My heart drops when I hear a banshee one aisle over. My voice is low and tightly controlled when I say, “Listen, asshole, in three seconds I’m going to start “I told that Gilligan-lookin’ motherfucker to crawl screaming that you grabbed my tits. I’m going to back up his mama’s ass and shit himself a better sue the shit out of you and make such a convinc- opinion,” says the banshee. ing, tearful victim that the jury tosses you back in prison and throws away the key and you rot while Malevolent Mauve is closing in. I hunch against a holding an inmate’s pocket and letting him buttfuck display of that whiskey I will never forget. She does you every night in exchange for protection. In three not notice me. When she passes my aisle, she doesn’t seconds, unless you turn around and walk away and look healthy or clean anymore. Her once shiny plum don’t speak to me again.” hair hangs in lank chunks where it does not stick straight up to ask a question. Her gait is haphazard His fat lips work against each other as he thinks. I on the linoleum. I assume the burly, beer-gutted man do not look away. He puts his hands up in surrender with his arm around her is Mo. I could be wrong. I and backs away the way you would when confronted walk casually toward the checkout lanes with both with a vicious animal. And maybe that’s what I am. the Coke and beer in my cart. An angry, wounded, vicious animal. When I pass her, I do not say hello. ***
The day I leave, I am only given a few minutes notice. I feel young and bright. I hug Kate and Sha- ron goodbye. I thank the nurses, and they smile and wave. The big front doors buzz and my mom walks through them. I am halfway through the doors when I hear a wail. I cringe.
Mauve stumbles toward me. She holds out her arms and I catch her. She is sobbing. Her face is blotchy and wet. She is not a pretty crier.
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“Grandmother’s Shanty” Timothy Stammeyer 999
Aisling is a Gaelic word— pronounced ash-ling, like the dust falling from my grandmother’s cigarette
and the bundling of a baby girl— Molly Malone, born in 17th century Ireland, a daughter of fish mongers.
My grandmother sang of Molly— sucking in air as she set me into a makeshift couch bed, the musty covers
bare laden white pages— the silk bedsheet that tucks in a famous sonnet or prose that no one will ever read except a lover on her ride to work, a hand grasping the bus bar, the other clutching a ripped envelope with words she’s waited months to hear.
Molly and my grandmother are kindred— medicine couldn’t save them, lives dwindled without pomp, few friends gathered at the funeral,
stars burning after death— Molly a Dublin statue captured in stone, cast in the street; my grandmother encased in wood, alive in the knot of my family.
Molly sends me into the city— my grandmother’s eye aglow with silent blessing anointing the roads under my feet, sanctifying the breeze on my arms, promising they will always fall lightly behind me, the requiem of changing leaves on a sunlit day.
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“Surviving the C” Timothy Stammeyer 999
his is the story of how I almost died. It is “Self, you know what would be fun? Bending your T an account of the time I came face-to-face inflexible body in all kinds of contorted ways while with humanity, the time when I stopped trying to an instructor who actually CAN bend their body in be an inspiration and decided to be real. The event those ways tries to help you.” is riddled with paradox because, like most people, I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to live either. If In an attempt to make the ridiculously uncomfort- able poses more relaxing, the yoga instructor (who I had a choice of how to go, I desired something soft, something tender, a way out that escaped the from now forward will be called the all-flexible one) violence that raged in the world. In a word, I desired leads the yoga group in breathing in through the a death that was poetic, an ending that could end a nose and out through the mouth. This controlled piece of fine literature or, perhaps, begin it. Above breathing exercise is near impossible because while all, I wanted to avoid being the middle of a story, an the illness I’m most known for is Major Depression, unfortunate event that only received passing remarks I also have a small case of seasonal allergies. When I try to breathe in through my nose as the all-flex- in the Midwest town square of an unknown author’s book. Since my near death is ripe with contradiction, ible one suggests, I end up breaking the peaceful I suppose it most fitting to begin, and end, my story silence of the yoga session with a nose-breathing in the middle. I begin with the unexpected—the hullabaloo, which I imagine sounds exactly like a practice of yoga. hibernating bear with sleep apnea. The all-flexible one encourages me to keep breathing as I internally growl, “I’m trying! Why don’t you tell the pollen to It was a step forward on my descent into stop breathing?” It’s mighty hard to keep calm as I’m madness, my journey to nothingness. I un- shaking, muscles clenched, trying not to topple over derstood the procedure. as I’m stuck in downward cat or whatever the heck There are a multitude of activities I don’t want to they call it. Yoga and I are no bueno, but I digress. do when I want to die, and yoga is near the top of the I’m at group therapy one afternoon and the lead list. In fact, it’s right under paying taxes and engaging therapist informs me that the group does yoga on in small talk about the weather with that one guy Thursdays, to which I respond, “How much do you who knows way more than any human being should know about hibernating bears?” Alright, I didn’t ever know about meteorology. With this knowledge really ask that, but two thoughts immediately in mind, it should come as quite a surprise that the raced through my head when I realized I had to practice of yoga was the catalyst that saved my life. do yoga. Firstly, “What kind of depression therapy Before I go any further, I want to make a sincere, group in God’s green earth does yoga every Thurs- while admittedly halfhearted, apology to all of you day? Is this Mean Girls? Do we wear pink on Wednes- crazy flexible people and/or go-getter 40 year-old days and do yoga on Thursdays?” Secondly, “I’m suf- moms out there who like, and dare I say, love yoga. fering from severe depression and suicidal ideation I hate it. It ranks right up there with Grandma’s and you want me to do the activity that is number turnip casserole that is objectively disgusting, but three on the list of things I don’t want to do when I you keep trying it with a star-crossed hope that the want to die?” But what the heck, the therapist was same exact, despicable recipe will magically improve. leading me to the door, so I grabbed a purple yoga Back to yoga. Every now and then I think to myself, mat and walked into the makeshift yoga studio.
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This version of the all-flexible one seemed par- As I waited for the nurse to call my name, which ticularly optimistic and excited to take our small took mysteriously long considering that the amount group of mentally-ill-clad peace warriors on a quest of emergencies seemed rather dormant at 4:45, I through uncomfortable shape shifting and nose guess more like 5:05 at that point, on a Thursday, I breathing. From the get-go, I was absolutely not imagined what the mental health unit of the hospi- having it. Perhaps it was because the all-flexible tal was like. The glimpses of horrific conditions of one reflected the spirit of life that I once had and state institutions, lobotomies, and Frakensteinesque wanted again. Perhaps it was that I hated yoga and people who roamed the halls didn’t surface in my my depression and anxiety interpreted the practice thoughts. I was, in a way, excited for treatment. as meaningless. Perhaps it was the fact that I knew I I figured that the hospital was full of depressed was severely sick and any attempt to slow down and people like myself who sought recovery. I figured honestly peer into my innermost being was incred- there would be comfortable chairs on the patio that ibly frightening because I might stare into the face looked over the city, soft music, relaxation, and con- of darkness, or worse, the void of nothingness. As versation. The hospital was going to be a place of the yoga session neared the end, the all-flexible one refreshment and encouragement—a place where had each group member lie on their back, close their human dignity was upheld and everyone was valued. eyelids, and sketch a pleasant place in their mind’s The nurse called my name and led me through the eye. The all-flexible one told us to focus on that double doors. Stepping into triage, my picturesque paradise and breathe in and out slowly. In and out. fantasy turned into a cold nightmare. In. and. out. As I breathed out the final time, I knew the trajectory of my life would be altered forever. Each E.R. patient room had two doors locked from the outside. There was a patient bed, one pil- You have to brave, I told myself as I sat in the ther- low, no medical supplies in sight. The walls were apy waiting room waiting for Zach. He was my best bare, white. If you listened hard enough, you could friend, the person who had walked with me through hear the walls whisper, “Welcome to prison.” I felt the depths of mental illness. He was coming to get trapped, humiliated, wondering if my new set of hos- me, but the next part of the journey was something pital clothes would have the word “insane” stamped I had to face on my own. to the back. My first visitor was a nurse. She was a tough, broad woman, who had seen it all. She was We were assigned a larger staff and small- short and intimidating, speaking brisk with a New er patient size so the hospital could keep a England accent, a far cry from the comfort I craved. close watch on us. If this were a jail, we were After I recounted a brief synopsis of my mental maximum security. health, she asked my clothing size and left, a click of the lock accompanying her departure. I checked into the emergency room at 4:45 p.m. I checked in with the receptionist who I think was It didn’t take long for the next visitor to knock from another country originally because she spoke sharply on my cell door. He entered, a solid six foot beautifully. She chewed her gum really loud and kept two, two-forty, full uniform, gloves, and a taser. A looking at her phone and when I told her I was there security guard of the E.R., he was entrusted with the because I was suicidal, she didn’t seem very con- safety of all patients and personnel. He greeted me cerned. I checked into the emergency room when I hesitantly, trying to dispel the thick air of humili- signed my name on the form next to the paper with ation and distrust hanging heavy in the bare white HIPPA in big bold letters. I sat down across from room. I felt less like a person, more like a public the only other guy there. Apparently, there was a lack enemy preparing for sentencing. It was a step for- of emergencies at 4:45 p.m. on a Thursday. ward on my dissent into madness, my journey to nothingness. I understood the procedure. There
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were all kinds of people coming into the emergency human spirit refusing to quit. Sometimes human room from all walks of life. Some were forced to seek beings are capable of outward greatness that soci- treatment, others still wished to do harm on the clos- ety recognizes as courageous acts of valor. In this est person to them. I’m all about safety—that is why moment, however, I learned that courageous acts are I entered the hospital. To be greeted by a security not only defined by their societal gravity, but also in guard, every personal possession taken away with proportion to the person’s individual struggle. In no contact to the outside world, was humiliating. that moment, I signaled the nurse through my cell I no longer felt like I mattered; I would just wither window. She unlocked the door and peeked inside. I away and dissolve. spoke with all the fibers of honor left in my being, “These clothes are too small for me.” “Oh, honey, The doctor strolled into the room like a bona fide I’ll grab you some bigger ones.” I felt like a person, asshole. I thought my whole “lying on the floor when a weak shriveled tendril, but a person nonetheless. there was a perfectly good hospital bed” routine would spark his interest, but yet again, all bets were The nurse arrived back a few minutes later with a off in the psych ward. “Comfortable on the floor?” fresh stack of red fibers straight from the factories of he asked without a care in the world what I replied. Nicaragua. While I can’t be certain, I highly doubt He spoke to me the way a parent speaks to a child that there was any semblance of fair trade in the after they have a little ouchy. He treated me like I purchase of our uniforms. I looked quickly at the was certified insane and unable to cognitively com- tag, expecting it to read “XL.” Much to my surprise, prehend a basic question. “How are you feeling?” I the nurse brought me clothes slightly bigger than wanted to tell him to take his head and shove it up anticipated—a size 3X. I laughed. In her defense, his butthole until he found some compassion, but I am a little chubby. There is no way in hell, how- I couldn’t speak. My thoughts were trapped in my ever, that mid-sized old me is fitting into a 3X. A head, the synapses that connected thought to speech mix between the ridiculousness of the situation and were ruptured. My lips betrayed me, answering in the fact that I had no idea what to do, I thought I line with what this buffoon of a physician wanted would humor myself and try them on. As expected, to hear. My brain, trying to protect me, betrayed my new clothes looked like MC Hammer’s pants got me. The ounce of dignity that remained was gone. an upgrade. I could pull the pants way past my belly button. They made a great little cave that I could After the doctor who took plenty of medical hide in if the rest of the hospital was as terrifying as courses, but skipped human dignity day, left the the ER. If nothing else, I figured they would make room, the rough-around-the-edges nurse came back a good blanket. into my cell carrying a handful of red cloth. “Put these on,” she said with a note of trepidation, half A few minutes later, the iconic knock of the hos- expecting me to growl at her. The thin red fabric, pital pounded on the wood. Another security guard as it turns out, was my prison uniform. It was an walked in, different from the first one, with “Patient ugly, humiliating, maroon red; it looked like blood, Transport” displayed blaringly on his uniform. While dirty and drowned. I was marginally confused with the entire process up until that point, I was fairly confident of the She gave me a pair of larges to try. I slipped out reason he was in my room. The guard took me to of my street clothes and hesitantly into my new the elevator. After the “ding,” we started rising. I threads. The material was free from flexibility and hoped my spirits would do the same. warped unashamedly around my insecurities. I felt fat and hideous. While my brain felt clouded, When I arrived on the main psychological unit of heavy, and empty all at the same time, there came a the hospital, it was well into the evening. Between burst of righteousness that I can only define as my trying to color my nightmare away and getting intro-
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duced to the ward, my energy was depleted. My nurse’s office, to a small window. Our rooms were to mind, however, still buzzed. It was a rocky first the right and left of this hallway. The entire C-side night, akin to how the shoreline of the coast must unit was no longer than a quarter of my dorm floor feel as the icy waters spray upon it with the force in my freshman year of college. “Eat,” Sharon said, of a thousand crying pleas. The night was long and “you need your strength.” lonely. Not being able to sleep and unsure that I could keep myself safe, I was transferred to the more We, the patients of the C, were the needy; the secure unit—the C side. people with the highest security risk were stationed there. We were assigned a larger staff and smaller I woke up in the high-acuity psychology ward, patient size so the hospital could keep a close watch C-side, with a heavy mind. The only pain sharper on us. If this were a jail, we were maximum secu- than the depression was the intense burning of my rity. Despite being locked in and having no personal arms, fresh with the marks of desperation. My new locks on our doors or bathrooms, the place started room was quainter than my previous cell. There was to remind me of a run-down senior living facility. only one bed, a window looking over the downtown The hygiene supplies, decently enjoyable crafts, cityscape, and my personal bathroom with a real, bland food, and an immense amount of coloring locking door that only locked from the outside. For and crossword supplies kept me double checking a few moments, I breathed fresh with relief. Could if I was there as a patient or there to see grandma. it be that the hospital listened to my cries for help and put me in a place where I could recover properly? "While a crippling mental illness left my life I was seriously sick; I knew the truth. My thought at bay, I looked over the pallet garden in the processes were broken. I could no longer trust my yard, the yard of my childhood home, the own analysis. I thought, perhaps, that my optimistic place I adored." outlook on my new suite was the product of hopeful thinking based on a primal survival instinct. My I wish I could say lots of great things about the meta-analysis was quickly disrupted when I noticed hospital, but in reality, it was tough. You didn’t get I was not alone on the C-side. sent over to the C-side unless they were seriously concerned about you. The weight of being in the C After explaining to me that she had to watch me was heavy; I felt the burden. It wasn’t the heaviest one-on-one all night to make sure I remained safe, of things, but a confirmation that you were one step the nurse, Sharon, walked me to the main gathering further away from getting out of the hospital. Now space of the ward where our breakfast trays were there were three sets of solid double doors I needed waiting. I had eggs and bacon. It’s fascinating how to walk through in order to be free again and, quite the smallest details of the most wonderful and most frankly, the scratches on my arms confirmed that I horrific events are etched into long-term memory. wasn’t about to leave anytime soon. I remember this first breakfast because I dislike eggs and non-Iowans never seem to make bacon It wasn’t glamorous, yet there were two events that right. For the record, crisping bacon on the stove- defined my experience there. The first happened on top is the Iowan way, and dare I say the only way, my birthday. I didn’t make a big deal about it being to prepare pig candy. The gathering area consisted my birthday. In fact, my initial hope was that the of rectangular wooden tables, a smaller table in the hospital staff wouldn’t realize that my birthday was corner, a big television set, and a handful of comfy so soon. If I could keep my mouth shut about it, I chairs. Off the main space were the key-access dou- thought, then I wouldn’t have to deal with the pomp ble doors, built solid—built with the sole intention and circumstance of the whole affair. Secretly, I of keeping some people in and others out. A small worried that they would forget, or worse, remember hallway ran from the doors, past the main space and and not care. Luckily, all my fears and anxiety were
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calmed quickly when one of the behavioral tech- a few hours. The day was mine, and what’s more, nicians, Kate, noticed the presence of my special I was alive. day. “Happy Birthday,” she said enthusiastically. This comment was quickly accompanied by a round of Kate, my behavioral technician confidant, the one similar sentiments from the other patients. While who was exceptionally talented at color-by-number the hospital is no place to spend a celebration of life, pictures, called me over just as everyone else was I was deeply grateful for all the love I was shown that going to their rooms for the night. She pulled out day. Perhaps having my birthday in the hospital was her phone and made me promise that I wouldn’t tell the most poignant of all places for me, celebrating on her for using her phone with a patient. I laughed my life in a place that saved me from extinguishing it. at how ridiculous this request sounded, but I agreed, more out of curiosity than necessity. She pulled There are a few important perks you receive when up YouTube from her search browser and typed in you celebrate your birthday in the hospital. The first the number “22.” Naturally, Taylor Swift’s hit song greeted me in the morning on my breakfast tray. popped up. “This wouldn’t be a proper 22nd birth- Underneath my name, before the list of foods on day without listening to this song,” Kate said with my tray, was a printed note that said “Happy Birth- a hint of sweetness and a touch of mischievousness. day!” It was touching, really, that nutrition services, The song started to play, albeit quietly, there in the the very people who couldn’t seem to manage to hospital as we sat in the two chairs by the telephone. remember my iced tea, had taken the time to wish me, little insignificant me, a happy birthday. While I danced like a white boy. It wasn’t much, just a I’m sure the system is automated to print that way on little arm swivel while I sat in the chair, but I felt a patient’s birthday, I still took the message in high normal. For the first time since I entered the hospi- esteem. The second, and dare I say most important, tal, I didn’t feel like a numbered patient stripped of perk of having a birthday in the hospital—a birthday his dignity. I felt like I was cared about, like I could cake. Now, I’m no expert, but based on nutrition ser- be friends with the staff, like I mattered, and what’s vices’ track record, I was a little worried about what more, that I had a future outside the confines of the kind of cake they were going to send up. I heard, hospital. I felt loved, and free, and me. I felt 22. though, that the cake was delightful and there was The second happening occurred hours later. The enough to share with everyone on the unit. While ward was chaotic, patients were constantly screaming I was already a bit of a celebrity, being the reason and demanding. There seemed to be enough order everyone got cake instantly boosted my status. just to keep the place from imploding. Between After dinner, nutrition services brought up my the constant demands of Steve for food, and the cake. To my delight, it was a full-size, homemade quick temper of several other patients, the place German chocolate cake, complete with coconut was the antithesis of calming. I knew that many of the patients couldn’t help their distress. I realized and all the fixings. It was a thing of beauty. The staff cut it into squares, gave me the first piece, and that they were in deep suffering that manifested started a round of singing “Happy Birthday.” They itself in outward turmoil. The reality was, however, were painfully off key, but their tune warmed my that this triggered my anxiety and made me want heart. It was surreal that amidst all the suffering, to curl up in a ball and punch someone at the same all the ways the mind tried to deceive us, that such time. At supper, I left momentarily and when I came a beautiful and warm celebration radiated strong back, Samantha, little old fake hair extensions and conniving Samantha, stole some of my food off my with enough intensity to float through the solid double doors that confined us. I felt loved, and tray because she “thought” I was finished. Yes, my thankful, and my pessimism that had dominated existence was diminished to having to worry about another patient stealing my food. my hospital stay until that point took a hiatus for
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Through all of this yelling, and cussing, and of life. We were black and white, Indian and His- non-therapeutic turmoil, I remained still. After panic, Catholic and Muslim. Most importantly, we the new guy yelled once more, I stood up from my were. Stroked with inspiration, determination, and chair and poised for battle. I became the king of the a hint of madness, I approached the lead therapist Wild Things. Silence took over the room for the just before the meeting started and asked if I could briefest of moments like the center of the eye of the play a song on guitar for the group. He approved hurricane. I stared with my terrible blue eyes and with a joyous apprehension, a slight gleam in his curled my terrible claws. I turned to the new guy eyes only visible by a person searching for hindered and shouted in my hoarsest and most vile of tones, affirmation. After the usual check-in and sign-ups, “Shut the f*** up.” It was amazing really, as no one the man in charge, John, pointed at me and explained around could believe that me, the man of calm words, that I had a musical talent to share with the group. Jesus, and sweet guitar playing had it in him to yell, I started my short speech, “We all have come here let alone cuss at another person. “You want to fight with heavy hearts and different problems, but we me asshole?” he returned defiantly. Before I was able are all loved and we all matter. Together, supporting to return a reply, a nurse started grabbing my arm, one another, we shall overcome.” And I played and begging me to sit down. “You need to calm down,” played, and poured my soul into the lyrics: she said. “Calm down? Calm down!” I said, “There is no way in hell that I need to calm down. I have “We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall over- sat here for seven f***ing days in this hell hole of an come some day. Deep in my heart, I do believe that we environment without the slightest thread of anything shall overcome some day. We are not afraid, we are not therapeutic. I checked into the hospital thinking afraid, we are not afraid today. Deep in my heart, I do it was going to be a safe and nice environment for believe that we shall overcome some day.” me to recover and make me not want to kill myself. The faces of the people in the circle started to melt Instead, this place has been the exact opposite. I in the way of healing. People started to cry, some have sat here and colored for a week, and for what? sobbing, others with tears dripping slightly. One Just to hear all of these people yell and complain. beautiful woman came up and said, “Thank you.” You need to get me out of here and over to the other That expression of thanks still haunts me today. side. You need to do it tonight. I demand to talk to the patient advocate.” And when I sat down to eat A couple days later, thze doctor wrote me a final the rest of my supper, it was still warm. prescription and cleared me for discharge. There’s not much that I remember about leaving the hos- I remembered life has meaning. There is pital. I do remember that when I left the parking still time to smell the tulips growing, time to garage there was a tight spiral to drive down. My dance in the back yard with the music blast- parents picked me up and brought me with them ing in your head and falling down dizzy and back to my childhood home in Iowa. content . . . . There is time to kiss that girl Sitting on the outside deck of my home weeks under the tree on the lakeshore, even if you’re later, I looked out over the pallet garden my brother not sure it’s going to work out. built. An area of pots and large mason jars adorned The next day, I was moved back to the other side the wooden slats. There were reds, and greens, and of the psychological ward where I began my journey beige, and a pink pot, an odd assortment with plants days earlier. A couple mornings later, the patients just beginning to bloom. I thought back to all of the gathered together for the daily meeting. We were days of my youth, swinging bats and getting ice cream numerous and weary. Some of us were homeless, from the corner shop. Vanilla swirled with raspberry others addicted to drugs, others addicted to the pain in a cone upside down in a styrofoam dish was my
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favorite. The ice cream melted so quickly that a cone There is time to kiss that girl under the tree on the alone would leave my hands a sweet sticky mess, a lakeshore even if you’re not sure it’s going to work copycat nectar for the hummingbirds. Some nights out. There is time for canoe trips, and camping trips, we would skip the ice cream swirl and head for the and making that perfect golden-brown s’more over snow cone shop. I bought a medium blue raspberry the campfire even if you had to eat the previous ten and strawberry mixture, delighting in the moment because you caught them on fire. There is time to go the snow cone man poured the syrup into the crystals, to the thrift store and walk around town like you’re the sugar sinking into the days of my childhood long from the 70’s, time to buy that crappy vinyl record for past. While a crippling mental illness left my life at 75 cents and listen to it spin in the glow of the front bay, I looked over the pallet garden in the yard, the porch lights. There is time to jump from that 10-foot- yard of my childhood home, the place I adored. tall rock into the lake where you can’t see the bottom.
I made the decision, without word, without sound, There is time to paint that birdhouse, curse the without a visible extraordinary. With a swish of brain squirrels for stealing the birdseed, and plant those juices spiraling, a sensation only likened to kinetic wildflowers in the shade of the roof’s overhang. There vivaciousness, I remembered. is time to make clues for hidden treasure maps out of inside jokes and lead your friends across town on a wild I remembered the time in the rural countryside goose chase, time to feed the geese and the ducks at of Iowa with my cousins. A kind farmer, a man with the park with leftover lettuce because apparently the worn knuckles, took me on a tractor ride through the bread is bad for them. field. I remembered the clunk of the engine and the rusty green paint that sparkled on the long snout of Making the decision to stay on earth and the machine’s front end. not take your life is a little like falling in I remembered the dance studio where I first graced love—it’s raw, unknown. In many ways, the stage in my little tumbling outfit, cartwheeling to dying is much easier than living—staying “Animal Crackers in My Soup.” I remembered being complacent is easier than loving. a poor Jewish man in the musical Fiddler on the Roof. I walked out on closing night to cheers and a standing There is time to dance awkwardly on your way into ovation. That day, in that moment, I was a very rich the grocery store and watch yourself on the security man. I remembered wearing a blue cotton uniform camera screens. There is time to love, time to love well, with “Dodgers” printed in cursive along the front. I time to love often. There is time to buy a 30-dollar was the shortstop and no ball got by me. I was the kite and wait for a windy day to launch it high, time league MVP in defense, a golden glove of my golden to watch it soar with the dreams you’re not prepared childhood years. The team all called me “Sparky” to give up. There is time to laugh, and leap, and sigh, because I lit up each game with my wide crooked and mourn, and more time to remember that life is smile. My parents were so proud of me. My parents not full of beauty; life is beauty. are still proud of me. Time to turn halfway and remember what befalls I remembered life has meaning. There is still time you, what lies behind and might still haunt you. Time to smell the tulips growing, time to dance in the back to turn again fully taught and go to the fields of romp- yard with the music blasting in your head and falling ing that you ought. There is time to still hunt the down dizzy and content. There is still time to order fairies of yonder year and chase the butterflies in the a jumbo tenderloin AND a chocolate mixer from night, blinking clear. There is time to drop the winning Goldie’s Sandwich Shoppe. pass, to overcook the Thanksgiving meal, to thirst for heaven. There is time to celebrate the victories the world calls trivial, but in your heart hold the place
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highest to heaven this life can offer. There is time to remember, time to forget remembering.
There is time and time is not yet spent. There is time. Time to live.
Through it all—the suicidal thoughts, the realization that there is nothing poetic about mental illness, the understanding that there is nothing illogical about losing your mind, life started to click. I’ve heard that when you fall in love, the songs on the radio start to make sense.
You stop and wonder if the lyrics are meant just for you, how being in love is a trial, that being in love is worth it. At least you have to trust that it is. Making the decision to stay on earth and not take your life is a little like falling in love—it’s raw, unknown. In many ways, dying is much easier than living—staying com- placent is easier than loving.
You see, though, it’s not about being easy; it’s not even about choosing what makes sense at the time. It’s about knowing that your value far surpasses any illness that can plague you, any taunt that can humiliate you, any temptation that befalls you. It’s about waltzing up to the gates of hell, looking inside, and deciding that the journey back up the spiral staircase that has led to the entrance of fire is not easy to climb, but it is possible, it is doable, it is worth it.
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“Ghazal for a Sunken Ship” Harlan Grant 999 When I accepted the water as it was I became part of the sea change Plundering Neptune’s pockets for a bit of loose spare change
Soggy starfish constellations jostling for dominance in black forest cake sky Features dripping kindling from jawbones like rainy day changelings
H2O whip cream foam same as chains on the splintered legs of my stern maiden Fit the whole deep blue bakery into frame but the story remains unchanged
Now there’s liquid in my book of recipes drowning undeveloped reveries Jeweler’s oysters showering my waterlogged kitchenette in scent change
Baker’s Dozen, a designation once proud now peeling in slivers off starboard A low harbor’s putrid visitant altered by incident but in memory never changing
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“Fear” Cale Edgington 999
hey tell you so many things when you go A woman at the door stands up and her silhouette T to the school. casts a shadow over you. Your executioner. They call her the Jumpmaster. You think your title is better. Some of it’s joking. She’s staring down at each of you. You can’t see “You know how much time you got to fix a bad her face with the back-lighting of demonic fires, and chute, Pri’? The rest of your life.” the cool black mask that comes down over her eyes. “It ain’t a bad fall that’ll kill ya’ Pri’. It’s the But you can see the way she waves her arms and the landing.” call, “On your feet!”
But the one you were told that stuck with you the Is this how prisoners feel being marched to the most was simple. chopping block? Or pushed up the steps to the gal- lows? Nobody grabs you or pulls you to your feet and You’ve never really known fear before. you don’t want to but no matter how much some part of you screams to stop, you get onto your feet and Is this how prisoners feel being marched to you try to will your legs to stop shaking so much. the chopping block? Or pushed up the steps to Hands scramble out and they find the wall next to the gallows? you and the man in front of you. He jumps at the touch and you think you hear him curse. Because fear is doing something you hate more than anything else, another time. And now here You feel an arm on your shoulder and you do the you are sitting on your ass in the back of some old same. When you look behind you to see who it is, steel bird, engines rumbling on the other side of you can’t make out his face too well through the that metal wall. You don’t know what is making your shadow you cast on it. But what you can see is he’s teeth chatter. Is it the cold? Maybe the engines? Or hung his head and he looks like death. is it the fact that the inky blackness only makes the You look back up the line to the Jumpmaster. distance between you and the ground so much worse? She seems so far ahead but still too close all at You can see it just outside the windows. The sky once, towering over you. Is she grinning? She must is dark as pitch and there isn’t a speck of starlight be. The headsman must love her work. anywhere in the sky. The only reason you can see the person in front of you is because of the day-glo strips “Hook up!” She yells. on the back of his helmet that tells you he’s there. Well, that and if you stretch your feet out too much But the rumble and the chaos of noise around you you’ll start digging into his back and he’ll let you means that each word is spoken on its own. Like a know he doesn’t really appreciate that sort of thing. bullet point or a command unto itself. You let go of the wall – and immediately regret it. Turbulence Then the light comes on. Dull red and there is a nearly smacks you against that same barrier and your klaxon call that echoes through the bay. face goes against the glass hard. The man behind you tries to help and pull you away but he’s too late.
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Before he pulls you back, you see all of it. Or really, red light. Long and cold steel held in a tight grip. You you see how much you can’t see. see her eye the man on the ground like a hunter star- ing down at a wounded deer. She reels back, swings, Darkness up. A void below. You wouldn’t even and… and his line cuts free. It hangs by its carabiner think the wing was there if you couldn’t see the a foot in front of you while she turns on him, hefts strobing red light at its tip. It’s almost enough to him by his chest-straps, and with a nearly herculean make dinner come up and you can feel it churning strength she hefts him to the rear of the craft. in your guts when your finally pulled away from the wall and back on your own two feet. Following the You don’t hear what she says before she turns to woman’s orders help you forget about it as you paw you. Blood is running in your ears and you can taste at your chest until you feel the ice of the carabiner your lunch again. And for the first time you can see even through your glove. your own face staring back at you from that black glass. A ghostly image cast just over her thin-pursed The Jumpmaster scowls and you watch her lips as she reaches out and grabs your collar, pulling fish in her pocket. You freeze when you see you to where he had been standing seconds before. the glint under red light. Long and cold steel He’s whimpering. You want to, to, but you can barely held in a tight grip. work your jaw let alone think enough to cry.
The line above you that you hook onto makes you “Jumper! Stand! Ready!” think of a noose too much. How you are about to You turn to the door and face that final barrier. be hanging from it as your last grounded connection You try to remember other experiences and other to – anything. And how you know if it does its job training that you went into. Other advice you’ve been perfectly, it might be the same thing that kills you. given. You remember one that your father told you: “Jumper! Stand ready!” focus on a spot on the wall, and try to build a house in your mind. So, you stare at a spot of cold steel on The first man in the line is the unluckiest. He the door and you imagine what you can. has no chance to try and cower away or avoid the Jumpmaster’s gaze. He must do exactly as he’s told, The foundation would be… brick? You think. turning and facing the still closed door where he Houses have brick bottoms, don’t they? And wooden can just imagine what isn’t waiting for him on the walls. The windows would be glass, of course. A door. other side. Some part of you breaths a sigh of relief. Living room. The whole exercise makes you take He has the toughest job, doesn’t he? Standing there thirty seconds because you realize the man who and just facing it. The rest of you have permission gave you the advice? Was an engineer. And you’re to just – run. Run through it. piss at building houses.
But then he breaks. You and your killer both see Then the red light strobes once and all that is gone it at the same time. anyways as the woman reaches down to a latch you didn’t notice on the door and pulls it up in one fluid motion. It starts with a shake of the legs and then he crum- bles to the steel floor, “No! No fuckin’ – no! I can’t You hear the scream of steel rollers the very same do it!” You watch him desperately kick his feet on second that the blast of cold hits you. Your eyes the ground and try to tug away but he’s hooked up water and breath is ripped from your lungs. The like the rest of you and so he doesn’t get very far. air around you drops ten degrees in half as many seconds and your fingers are already going numb The Jumpmaster scowls and you watch her fish in through the gloves. And there is that void again. her pocket. You freeze when you see the glint under Except this time there is no window. There’s no
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steel. There is just two, maybe three steps, and that Then the damning color. Green. total darkness beyond. Green comes on and reveals her standing there “Jumper! Stand in the door!” watching you. It’s something out of a movie.
Like hell you will! You can just step back and – “Four! Three! Two!”
But she reads your mind. She has you by the shoul- The air around you drops ten degrees in ders and she shoves you forward. half as many seconds and your fingers are A kick to the ass is a reminder that she’s the one already going numb through the gloves. And in charge. there is that void again. Except this time there is no window. There’s no steel. There You are flailing though. Your hands seek any pur- is just two, maybe three steps, and that total chase and they find them. The frane of the door. darkness beyond. The problem with that? It’s a good two feet ahead of you, and means you’re clutching to the outside of And that’s the last thing you hear from her. Her the plane. So now you are leaning with boots slipping boot meets your back on two and suddenly you are on steel, hands clutching the walls, and your head in the open. A second of weightlessness and pure sticks out into that darkness where you can’t even nothing. Your legs and arms flail wildly for purchase. hear. You can’t see. You wonder if they can hear you screaming as you fall. You wonder why you can’t even hear yourself. The world is white noise, darkness, cold. Then it snaps. The line behind you pulls free and Kicks to the back of your feet have you ‘retreating’ your body shakes to its core. to the door. Retreating until they are wedged tight to either side of the open frame. And still you are Freedom, you think hopefully. Safety. trying to look anywhere for any sort of sign. Up and down are no good. Ahead, you can’t see the nose of But then you hear the hiss of wind. The flapping of the plane. To the rear, the tail disappears behind the fabric. More importantly than that, you feel chords curve of its body. Suddenly she grabs you again and pressing in on the side of your head. You will yourself you are pulled back into the red and the rumble. to open your eyes – not that you could tell the differ- ence – and try to look up at it. You strain and squint “Jump on my go!” She commands. even as you fall but you can’t see anything over you. You can just hear the sound of that lifeline uselessly You nod. What else are you going to do? flailing in the wind, while it pulls at your shoulders. Joining your friend isn’t an option. You steal a That wasn’t desperation back in the plane. glance over your shoulder to see him laying curled up. Another one of the executioners, in jumpsuit That didn’t set in till now. and masked helmet, crouches over him looking no happier than the Jumpmaster at your shoulder. Your mind scrambles desperately through the steps. But you lose sight of them. Stand up. Hook up. Step to the door. All that’s The red light goes off. done. Did you count to ten? No – no but what good does that do now? On reflex again, you start paw- Blackness behind you. Blackness ahead of you. ing at your chest for some release or pull. All the while you find yourself looking from your feet to
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the sky. You strain to see some glow or some light Or maybe it’s the way your chute catches a tree. from down below and you try and gauge how far you How you are suddenly sent spinning in a lazy arch are to the ground. around a tree you can’t even see like a tether ball – until you meet a similar fate. It’s too dark to see your Wind screams in your ear. Your body buffets. hand in front of your face, let alone a tree. Closer. You know the ground is coming closer. You start tumbling. Twisting. If the dark You’re going faster, too. was bad before, now your inner ear is spin- ning, and you can’t tell which way to look. That’s when you find the release. A chord on your You’re a misbalanced top. shoulder. You pull on it, hard, and hear the zipping of lines coming free from your harness… and then But you feel the impact. You feel the back against you don’t have any guidance. You start tumbling. your eye-protection so at least you aren’t blind. But Twisting. If the dark was bad before, now your inner you also feel the way your nose crunches. You feel the ear is spinning, and you can’t tell which way to look. gout of blood that splatters down your chin when it You’re a misbalanced top. connects. If nothing else it lets you see for the first The panic is setting in all the harder. time since you left the plane, as white stars dance in front of your vision. It’s turning the cold air to ice. Concussion? Probably. It’s making you miss every touch. But you’re alive. You check your belt and your harness. Some part of you tells you to check your pockets – empty – like You’re alive, hanging from the tree. And you let you need to get your keys. Your brain isn’t telling you yourself swing there, breathing through your mouth anything. Anything except that you are about to die to avoid the pain. And after a few minutes of that you because the ground is right below you. finally get the energy to fish your flashlight off your belt and click it on. You sweep that cone over the You don’t catch your reserve on purpose. But you trees around you and you even find the dark, splat- catch it. tered bark where your face met an American Beech. It makes your nose hurt more just looking at it. It’s tucked in on your belly and you can feel the punch of that fabric ball against your face as it Finally, you look down and realize the ground is catches the wind and goes skyward. It rights you closer than you thought. Maybe a few feet? Close on its own. It has to, right? That’s how physics works, enough you feel confident pulling the release on some part of your mind reasons, just like how you’re your harness to fall those last few feet. And imme- still falling too fast. You’re falling way to fast to make diately regret it as the impact makes your nose pulse any difference. with pain.
But the funny thing about remembering physics But then you can lie there on your back in the cold is you remember how pendulums work. and the grass. You can lie there and try to breathe. You can lie there and realize you lived through fear. You remember how they work as you descend into an invisible cluster of trees. Something about the snap of branches as you come plummeting through them reminds you of pendulums.
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“Western Pantoum” Harlan Grant 999 There was a story that hurt me a while back About two fatal men cutting through frontier America When California first began to blister with civilization Gold nuzzled the banks of ambrosia rivers
Two brothers carving initials into frontier America The kind of folk-heroes we reminisce in bantam ways Gold hustled from the banks by whiskey Reavers We whittle their aspects into granite hills
The kind folk heroes we forget along the way Favor bloodied Kid Billy to hero John Henry We whittle their traits onto silver currencies Then flick them and wish them into a veiled well
Always prefer bloody Kid Billy to martyr John Henry Westerners easing the abscess of civilization Before diving and whistling into our hidden wells There was a story that hurt me a while back
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“Babs” Alexandra K. Griffin 999
he smell of fragrant prairie flowers surrounds I have the sudden urge to relieve myself. I find the T me and the warmth of the sun envelops my bathroom and limp over to the toilet, my knees ache body. I stretch my arms out as far as they can go, try- and creak with each movement. Once there, I grab ing to absorb every drop of sunlight. I inhale deeply my undergarments. “What,” I say aloud. My thumbs and open my eyes, I see two children playing in the hook under the waistband of an adult diaper. Did I prairie in the distance and wild horses frolicking. A just have a baby? Oh my! Where’s my baby? smile scrunches my smooth, young skin in places that will wrinkle as I age. It could not be a more I pull it down to my knees and look in the crotch. pleasant day. I close my eyes once again to absorb No blood. “Help,” I call again. Slowly, I lower my this euphoria. elderly body on to the toilet seat and pee as I wait for someone to answer my call. The alarm continues When I finally open them, I am no longer greeted from the hospital room. I grab some toilet paper and with this heavenly image, instead I see a fat, elderly wrap it around my fingers three times and spread my woman sleeping with her mouth wide open and her legs, wiping from front to back, just like my mother dentures falling out. I smell the pungent smell of taught me. Where is mother? Or father? They must human waste. The sheets on the bed crunch as I be wor--. sit up. I hear an incessant beeping and moans and groans in the distance. Where am I? I thought. “Barbra,” a young woman’s voice scolds. Who is that woman? Why am I not in my home? I look up, with my hand between my legs and the Where are my kids? Oh my goodness! Where are soiled toilet paper still wrapped around my fingers. my children? Millie is only a baby and Robert is but three, they cannot be without their mother. Henry “Yes,” I respond. must be worried sick. “You are not supposed to get up by yourself, My heart pounds in my chest as I swing my legs honey.” The young girl is wearing scrubs, but pink, out of bed, my bony, wrinkled, veiny, ugly legs. What? not white, like a nurse would wear. Her blonde hair Why are my legs so atrocious? I could not focus on piled up on top of her head in a bun, her face void of my legs; I needed to find my family. I flinch at the make-up, and the name tag clipped to her top claims sudden coldness as my feet touch the tile. I look her name is Kylie. down at the rest of my body and notice I am in a hospital gown. Oh my! Am I sick? I must be in the I start laughing at her, but she never joins hospital, but for what? I swear, if I am pregnant me. My whole world shatters with those again Henry will never hear the end of it. I grab three words. My children have grown and onto the bar of the hospital bed with my wrinkled, have their own children now, my grandchil- age-spotted arm and slowly stand up. dren. I’m a grandmother.
As soon as I rise a horrible, high-pitched alarm “Where am I?” I ask. as I drop the toilet paper starts going off. I look around frantically, worried in the toilet bowl. Kylie shifts her weight from one to disturb my roommate. “Help,” I call. “Help,” I tennis shoe to the other. call again. No one comes.
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“You are at Oak Hills Retirement Home, Barb.” “What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” I Oak Hills? That cannot be right. I am 25 years old. ask, shaking mad. There’s no way I am old enough to live here. “Babs, we do not hit people. I am trying to help “Barbra, what year is it?” you.” She grabs another one and does the same thing, then a dry cloth and again, drags it on my now sore “It…it must be,” I trail off counting the years on skin. She squirts a tablespoon of ointment on her my fingers. “1950.” hand and slathers my bottom with it. She looks at me with sympathy. “All right honey,” she says as she tugs my diaper in “No honey, it is 2018.” place, and then my jeans. She takes off her gloves and grabs my hand, “let’s go back into your room I may even be a great grandmother, maybe a great- and finish getting you ready.” great grandmother. Henry, where’s my Henry? He must be here with me. He promised we would grow After she directs me back to the hospital bed, Kylie old together. washes my face, removes my nightgown, fastens a bra around my ribs, pulls a sweater over my head, “Alright honey, I have other people to get up for fixes my hair, hands me a tooth brush with paste the day, so let’s get cleaned up and ready for break- applied and she finally dons my glasses. Once I rinse fast.” my mouth with Listerine, the young woman squirts one pump of perfume on each shoulder. My nose is She disappears around the corner for a few minutes invaded with my favorite perfume, White Diamonds. and returns wearing blue gloves with a stack of wet wash cloths and a pair of blue jeans. She places the Mom always makes the best coffee cake. cloths on the counter and kneels down threading I wonder where dad and my siblings are. my legs through the pants, then pulls a pair of thin Coffee cake is always a treat that no one ever socks out from under her arm and slides them up misses in our household. I look up and see a my legs, they tighten on my legs. young man with a hair net on. “Ouch,” I exclaim. “Okay, sweetie, ready for some breakfast? Shelia “Oh dear, it’s okay. I know you don’t like them. has made your favorite today, coffee cake,” she says But they help with the swelling.” cheerfully. I mean, I do love a good coffee cake. She walks me down to a cafeteria with her hand in mine She retrieves a pair cotton socks, pulling them and herds me to my rightful seat, pushing the chair over the first pair, and then puts on large, black, in once I sit down. Velcro shoes. “Okay, honey bunch,” Kylie says as she places a “Okay, ready to stand?” steaming cup of coffee in front of me, “I am going to I nod and clutch the metal grab bar, she loops her finish my work. You should be getting your breakfast right arm under my left and hoists me from the toilet. shortly.” Handing me three packets of creamer, she makes her leave. ”Alright, let’s turn now.” She moves my hips to show me which way to pivot. Kylie pulls my night- I rip each packet and carefully dump them into my gown up toward my shoulders, and places a warm cup. I stir it until my coffee is more tan than brown. cloth at the front of my privates and drags the rough A few minutes later someone places a plate in front washcloth to the back. I slap her hand away. of me with two hardboiled eggs and a generous piece of coffee cake.
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“Thank you, Mother.” “Of course.” I muster a smile and walk out of the room. Once out of earshot and eye sight, I dash Mom always makes the best coffee cake. I wonder down the hall. I walk up to where our kitchen staff where dad and my siblings are. Coffee cake is always is serving breakfast. “Hey, Gabe, can I get a pack- a treat that no one ever misses in our household. age of dry cereal for Babs? Her husband’s funeral is I look up and see a young man with a hair net on. this morning.”
“Who are you? Where is my mother?” “Whatever you say, baby,” the pudgy seven- My heart quickens and suddenly Mother’s coffee teen-year-old responds with a smirk and a wink. I cake no longer looks appealing. I look around again. roll my eyes and shove his shoulder as he hands me I am in our farmhouse, the only place I have ever a small package of Frosted Flakes. I turn around lived. The long table that Father built to accommo- and walk toward Babs, who is almost finished with date all of us children is empty. her coffee cake.
“Mom,” I shout. “Mom!” “Hey Babs,” I squat down next to her, “we have to go to church this morning, so we’re going to have “Barbra,” a young woman, who is definitely older to leave the rest of our breakfast here and eat some than me says, “your mother has stepped out to get dry cereal on the way.” a couple eggs from the henhouse.” Oh, okay. She should return in a couple minutes. I devour the food Babs nods as she chews the last bite of her cake. my mother made while I wait for her. Kylie. “I like Pep!”
I smile as I help “Babs” get ready for breakfast, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, we don’t have any, but I even though inwardly, I pity her and her condition. have the next best thing,” I shake the container in my After I set her up in the dining room, I speed down hand for her to see. She takes a big gulp of her coffee the hallway to finish getting the rest of my section and reaches her hand out. I help pull her up and she up. On days that Babs is more forgetful and wakes up does an exaggerated turn, like we are dancing. early, my routine gets interrupted and I am usually “Oh, Henry,” she says and kisses my cheek, “I love later than what is expected. you forever.” As I round the corner, I notice Babs’ daughter is My heart breaks a little. “I love you forever, too,” her room. I pop my head in, knowing that the rest I respond, being a dutiful CNA, knowing we are of my residents will already be later than normal. supposed to enter the delusion with them. “Hi ma’am, can I help you?” Babs almost skips down the hallway and giggles, “Um, yes,” a woman who looks the age of my swinging my hand that is intertwined in hers. She grandma says, “I am looking for my mother, Bar- sings as I walkie my crew, “Hey guys, I had an unex- bara.” pected event. Can you wake up Gertrude and help Esther to the toilet. Hopefully, this won’t take too “I just took her to the dining room for breakfast.” long.” Her face instantly turns red in annoyance. My walkie beeps, letting me know I finished my “Are you kidding me? We are burying my father message. “Roger,” Shelbey responds. “10-4,” says today! I need you to get her in here and ready to go. Kaycee. I chuckle and shake my head at those two I told the nurse about this last week!” I then notice being witty. the black dress, heels, shawl and tights the woman is wearing.
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Once we reach her room, Babs stops singing. apart for those agonizing years. Although, I knew “Who are you?” she asks her daughter. I had changed mentally and looking into her eyes, I knew she had too. We had to relearn how to be a Millicent rolls her eyes, “Mom, I don’t have time couple again. We fought a lot until we found out Barb for your silly delusions today.” was pregnant with our son. When I found out we “Mom? I’m not your mother. I can’t be. I’m still finally were going to have a baby, I saw my wife in a a virgin.” whole new light and the ugliness between us disap- peared. As her belly grew, I fell more in love with She rolls her eyes again and crosses her arms. her. Nothing compares the feeling to holding your Looking at me, Millicent says, “Will you please just newborn child,” he said choking up a bit. I thought get her ready quickly? We are to be at the church in of my own son, whom I left with my mother so I Hartford in a half an hour and we still have a twenty could work and provide for him by myself. minute drive.” “When I stepped off that bus, hers was the “Of course,” I nod, somewhat disgusted that her first face I searched for,” he said with a daughter is unconcerned with her mother’s condi- twinkle in his eye. My heart melted, envy- tion. Her heels echo in the small room as leaves. and ing the unconditional love the two obviously a huge weight is lifted from my chest. Millicent, or shared. Millie, is the only family Babs has left.
Before her husband died, he would come and “Do you have any children, my dear?” spend every day with her, even on her bad days. He “Yes. One. A boy. He just turned a year.” once told me of their epic romance, after he was drafted to World War II. As soon as he received “You hold that sweet baby tight, and relish every the letter, he dropped to one knee and the two were moment, because before you know it,” he snapped married on the courthouse steps three days later, to his fingers, “he’ll be grown with a son of his own.” their parents’ dismay. I remember smiling at him while he told me this story, dragging his wrinkled Another time that Henry visited, Babs was having fingers through his wife’s long, white hair. “From a bad day where she switched between the times in her life. Another resident antagonized her, making the moment I met her, I knew she was the one,” he reminisced. “I couldn’t let any other man snatch her her condition worse to the point that she was throw- up while I was fighting them damn Japs.” A week ing punches and kicking people. My eye instantly after opening his notice he reported to his desig- swelled up when her left hand made contact with nated post, leaving his new wife for a couple years, my eye socket, leaving an open wound where the during that time Babs worked on military aircrafts sapphire on her wedding ring scratched the delicate and wrote letters to her soldier. skin on my eyelid. The nurse on duty immediately called Henry. As soon as he walked in, her mood “When I stepped off that bus, hers was the first changed. She opened her arms wide and smiled from face I searched for,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. ear to ear until the two embraced. My heart melted, envying the unconditional love the two obviously shared. I looked at my bare ring “Oh, Henry,” she uttered. “Where have you been, finger on my left hand and prayed that I could find my love? Don’t you know I am lost without you?” a devoted husband like that someday. I shake my head, devastated to think that Henry “When our eyes met, it was like our souls had was gone. The most devastating part to me was that remained together, even though our bodies were she would not be able to even comprehend the loss. Then again, ignorance is bliss. Bab’s won’t remem-
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ber that her beloved died, leaving her to die in her I shake my head as my vision turns cloudy own confusion. and my breath becomes shallow. I bite my lip, afraid to let on that I am upset. I feel Babs sits on the edge of her bed and gently touches a bony hand grab my chin and force it up the black outfit her daughter had chosen. “Who to look into her eyes. “Dear, why are you died?” she asks as I kneel down to take off her shoes. crying?” I shake my head as my vision turns cloudy and my Those words stuck with me as I got everyone else breath becomes shallow. I bite my lip, afraid to let that would be going to breakfast ready. End of life on that I am upset. I feel a bony hand grab my chin cares. When I was at a point that I could be doing and force it up to look into her eyes. “Dear, why are something extra or relaxing, I slipped into Babs’ you crying?” rooms and started cleaning her up. I rolled her frail “I was just thinking of something sad,” I say, chang- body easily by myself, changed her gown, completed ing the conversation. Babs starts humming You Are perineal cares, swabbed a moist toothette in her My Sunshine, the song Henry would always sing to mouth and brushed her hair. her before he left. Goosebumps covered my arms I sat next to her, and held her hand. “You are my and I started singing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear, how You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.” don’t take my sunshine away.” I sang the song over and over until Babs’ eyes slowly By the end of the song my voice cracked and my looked up at me after being closed for what seemed cheeks had long streams of salty tears. I finished for forever. getting her ready and sent her on her way to her “Th-th-thank you, Kylie. I love you forever,” she husband’s funeral with her miserable daughter and muttered weakly. Then she squeezed my hand and continued my work for the day. closed her eyes. I returned to work a week later, as I work long “I love you forever too, Babs,” I said and kissed hours on the weekend to keep daycare costs to a her cheek. I put some ChapStick on her dry lips and minimum. We started the shift by the previous crew left the room with tears running down my cheeks. updating us on resident conditions and behaviors, just like every other shift.
When we reached Babs’ room I peeked in to see Babs sleeping on her back. Her cheeks sunk into her face. Her breathing was so shallow and so weak it took several seconds for her chest to somewhat rise. Her white hair was braided down her right shoulder.
“And Babs isn’t doing well. She suffered a fall at Henry’s funeral, was in the hospital all week, and returned to hospice on Thursday. She started mot- tling in the hospital and has had the death rattle for the past several days. We are doing end of life cares.” My heart pounded in my chest and goosebumps formed on my arms. End of life cares.
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“Faith in My Father” Jalesha Johnson 999
I still have faith in my father. My teeth hold his name like good scripture.
Our relationship a rigid religion.
Pain is the preacher, I have sat through several sermons.
But I still want to believe in the man who gave birth to me.
Isn’t it funny? How quickly we forget Satan was a saint- until someone saw the snake in him.
Isn’t it funny? How quickly we condemn bad dads until we’re old enough to realize they too are human.
They too need to be forgiven. They also long to not be forgotten.
I wish I could go back in time and baptize the boy my dad used to be. I would soak him of his sins
until his skin could sing.
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Wish I could have met the man before the military, before the nightmares and day-drinking.
How do you hold a man who isn’t whole? How do you save someone from them self?
I never knew how holy a white flag could be until my father called me crying.
Until he told me he had nothing left to live for.
I made him remember his eight kids. I Fed him memories like communion.
For the first time in my life I felt savior and not sacrifice.
And that must be some type of god,
right?
66 1903-47934_SO_Damman_ArtExpressions2019 | 34 | Front | Sheet Work | 2019/04/25 09:50:46
1903-47934_SO_Damman_ArtExpressions2019 | 34 | Back | Sheet Work | 2019/04/25 09:50:46